The Essence Of
by eltseth
Summary: She didn't know if it was the right thing to do. She did it anyway.
1. Prologue

_Crack._

Hermione slowly lifted her foot, her wand firmly clutched in her hand. Her eyebrows were furrowed, her eyes narrowed, and her hair a complete bloody mess.

She bent down, moving the broken rubble to the side. To her right, Harry was levitating a shattered lantern, and to her left, Ron was tying the laces of his tattered right shoe. They stood in the courtyard of Hogwarts, surrounded by masses of people recovering from the battle.

In the rush of moving everything, Hermione had to hop over piles of wreckage and swerve around crowds of people. The courtyard and the Great Hall were in the most horrible condition, and out of their sense of duty and love for their school, the Golden Trio had agreed to stay behind and help fix the destruction, despite them only having just defeated Voldemort and his Death Eaters hours before. The sun was setting, casting an orange light on all the students and staff present, as if each head was surrounded by a glowing, ethereal halo.

She and Ron had insisted for Harry to get some rest, as he'd been the one who had seemingly taken most of the damage, physical or otherwise. He only refused completely, before berating them and joining the effort to save what was left of the school. Hermione's distress was palpable and obvious, but Ron's calm hand on her shoulder and insistence that Harry wouldn't be happy otherwise calmed her down. Ron's hand had left her shoulder tingling, and she shook her head, enchanted and confused, then followed Harry.

From the corner of her eye, Hermione saw Ron standing up, clapping his hands together to rid of the dust. She glanced at his shoe and found that he'd tied it into a clean, neat ribbon. She looked up at him and laughed. Ron grinned, shrugging, before extracting his wand and levitating a heavy rock that was in the way of a few students.

Hermione went back to the task at hand; careful not to hurt her hands, she started clearing the place where she heard the crack.

She vaguely registered Professor McGonagall doing the same thing; searching in the ground, her face worried, and one hand placed on her chest. Her movements were hurried and anxious.

Her little finger brushed something soft, and strangely cold. Carefully, Hermione placed her wand next to her foot. Pushing aside the dust and stones at a more hurried pace, her eyes widened.

On the floor, overshadowed by the dull colour of the stones, a small, delicate golden necklace shone feebly. A slight, barely noticeable crack ran down the middle of an hourglass, steadily pouring out a very thin stream of golden sand.

Barely registering the small item, Hermione picked it up by the chain. As she stood up, the chain suddenly gave in, tearing in the middle. She gasped, and her heart suddenly sped up, as she rebounded and caught the necklace.

She stood up, holding the chain from both ends, the little golden charm innocently swinging back and forth.

She opened her mouth, the question just on the tip of her tongue, when a figure in front of her suddenly stood up, their posture stiff, and their eyes horrified. Professor McGonagall stretched her arm to Hermione, her hand clenched, and she screamed. Professor McGonagall screamed, her eyes bright with tears that suddenly formed.

Hermione felt a tug behind her chest, and a sudden pain in her heart, which started to beat fast, fast, and _faster- _her ears popped, and she couldn't hear anything, _anything¸_ except McGonagall's resounding scream of _NO NO NO_, and her eyesight suddenly blurred, and her brain swiped clear of any thoughts, until suddenly, she was thrown into a world of bright light, and her chest hurt hurt _hurt _and it was _agony_-

She vaguely registered her wand on the floor, next to where her foot was, before everything went black.

* * *

**A/N: **Hello, guys! After a pretty long hiatus, I've returned with a Tomione. This is pretty much my first time writing a full chaptered story, whereas I used to almost exclusively write AU oneshots with this pairing. The story is planned until the very end (this is my first time actually planning something on this scale I'M SO PROUD. MY ENGLISH TEACHER WOULD HAVE BEEN ECSTATIC, considering that whenever I ignored planning, my two page story manages to transform into a twelve-paged epic...) and I have a few chapters already written and revised.

Read and review, if you so please! My cats refuse to acknowledge me after we left them for a four-day holiday in Alexandria. I shall ask you kindly for the attention and support that my cats only give me when I'm eating smoked turkey, and perhaps share my experiences on how I am slowly tumbling into the endless pit that is crazy cat-ladyness. And also that other endless pit where Tom Riddle is a constant and totally unhealthy obsession. Yep.


	2. Chapter One: Adverse

Her bottom smashed to the ground, and somewhere in the back of her head, she thanked whatever deity watching over her that she did not fall face first. She threw her hands to the back, quickly stopping her momentum and preventing herself from head-butting the floor.

Dizzy, and so incredibly _confused_, Hermione narrowed her eyes. Once everything became somewhat clear, she stood up. Her knuckles were white from the force of her clutching the feeble golden chain.

The first thing she registered was that it was still the same time of the day, the sun slowly setting. But instead of the coarse, stone floors of the courtyard, she found that she was standing in an expansive field of green grass. Shuffling her feet did not resound with the coarse scratch of the usual Hogwarts floors, but instead with a wistful _shhhh_ of fresh greenery. She felt uncomfortable.

Slowly, she brought her hand up to eye level, and saw the pendant clearly for the first time. It had a small, but complicated structure, with multiple dials and spherical ribbons around the hourglass spinning too fast for her to count. The hourglass itself seemed unaffected, rotating ever so slowly in the middle. When it finally did a half turn, Hermione found the same crack as she had when she first found it, except now it was steadily pouring a very thin stream of bright, gold sand.

Hermione stared at the pendant for a short while, unseeing, before finally registering the sand falling on her hands. Gasping, and muttering a chain of curse words under her breath, Hermione plopped down on the grass, crossing her legs. She picked out a long blade of grass, breathing out a quiet apology to it, before carefully placing the pendant on her lap. When her fingers came close to the hourglass, the dials and ribbons sped up much faster than usual, before making a sudden halt. She pushed them to the side with her smallest finger, flinching when one of them squeaked loudly. She reached out to the hourglass, her face nothing but wary, and weaved the grass blade around the middle, tying a clean, neat ribbon. The bright green clashed horrible with the gold, but Hermione did not deem it time to worry.

She threw her head back and stretched herself out on the grass, the necklace still on her lap. For a few moments, she stared up at the clear sky.

Abruptly, her back stiffened, and she sat up, her eyes wide.

The sky was clear.

The sky was bloody clear.

The sky was bloody clear, and two minutes ago, when she stood in the courtyard, the sky was _not _clear.

No. It had been darker, greyer, with ominous, thin clouds and the remains of a _morsmordre_ barely showing in the sunlight. But now, the sky was clear.

"Fuck."

Her heartbeat sped up, almost uneven, and her face reddened, and suddenly, something seemed to be bubbling out of her throat, and it lodged itself behind her tongue, and she did everything she could not to _scream_, to just stand up and cry for help, for _anything, _because she was not at Hogwarts.

She was in the middle of nowhere.

Panting, her shoulders rising up and down hurriedly, Hermione forced herself up. She angrily pushed away the lock of her hair in her eyes, and reached to her pocket for her wand.

She noticed, then, that it was not there.

She remembered, then, that it was on the floor when she had her… _impromptu_ trip to the middle of fucking nowhere.

"_Fuck_."

Sighing, and forcing herself not to panic, Hermione looked around her surroundings. To her east was an expansive lake, the only noticeable landmark in the middle of the rolling hills. She started walking towards it, her steps hurried, then it slowly turned into a speedy march, before she broke into a full on sprint, her arms pumping and her hair frizzy and flying behind her head, and when she reached the lake, her lungs tired and her muscles cramped, she barely managed to stop before the edge of the water.

She threw herself to the ground, her knees under her, and her jeans tearing. She reached out for the water before abruptly stopping.

Her reflection was horrible. Her eyes were frantic, and there were huge black circles under them. Her cheeks were hollow, and her lips chapped and grey. Her hair was wild, more so than usual, and her hairband was nowhere to be seen.

Ignoring what she just saw, and pretending she never did lay eyes on her appearance, Hermione cupped her hands into the water and splashed it onto her face. The water was cool, and gave her a mini electric shock. She blinked her eyes open, feeling much more awake and much less distressed. Then, without warning, Hermione took a deep breath and dipped her entire head underwater.

It was suddenly quiet, and Hermione lowered her body to the ground so that she could move her face upwards. The lake was deep, much more than it appeared, but it gave off the vibe of being _young_. It had long, yellow lines of seaweed climbing upwards, as if scrabbling and fighting to get closer to the sun. She saw the faint outline of what looked like a thick snake-like thing slither around a rock and slide to the sand, before she ran out of breath and pulled her head up.

Her hair soaked, and much calmer than previously, Hermione grudgingly twisted it to rid of excess water before pulling it up into a messy bun. She straightened her legs before her, and leaned forward till her fingertips touched the edge of her worn boot. She held the position for a minute, feeling the muscles of her legs relaxing. She tried to hold it for a few more moments, but something distracted her.

In the distance, she saw a very hazy silhouette rushing into the fields. Quickly, it was followed by a similar one, sprinting ahead, laughter echoing faintly around them. A few seconds later, two more figures joined them, though they walked hand in hand and in very deliberate, graceful steps.

Her muscles were frozen, and she felt as if she could not move. The two figures which had preceded the others suddenly stopped, and started circling each other. The indistinct sounds of their argument echoed in the hills. Though it sounded heated and quick, it had a playful undertone to it. One figure from the latter two stepped ahead, and Hermione saw that it was a tall, slim woman, and the other was shorter and plump, and she laughed richly as her female friend berated the two others.

Suddenly, the laughing woman went quiet, and Hermione could swear she was looking at her, _straight _at her, and the three others turned too, and her heart was in her throat, in her bloody throat, and her hands fumbled clumsily in the grass, and her breath came out at last when she touched the cold metal, and without even thinking, Hermione ran, she ran as far as she could. She did not know how far or how fast or how _much _she ran but she _did _and the hills rolled into less steep roads and the grass became shorter_, _and then she clutched the necklace in her hand, and her surroundings all _melted_, blurred into nothing but _white_, and that same ache behind her chest returned, and her ears popped.

She landed on her bottom again, but the ground was hard. She touched it with her hand, there was no grass this time. But this time, they were lots of little pebbles, all fitted seemingly by hand, to be on the same level. Some were shiny, and some were dull. She looked up, and suddenly, a high pitched scream resounded, and it echoed everywhere, and Hermione noted that she was standing behind a small building so she was hidden, but then there were footsteps. Loud, hurried footsteps, and cheering, but of the malicious, evil kind. She barely even moved before quickly clutching the necklace.

She landed behind the same building, on the same floor, which looked more weathered and stepped-on. The building looked older, and behind it were piles of trash. There were footsteps, again, and Hermione wondered if this was a usually crowded place, and there were cheers again, but they were light-hearted and happy, and Hermione's heart fell, because she suddenly longed to be the same. She longed to cheer and shout in joy with her friends, and she clutched the necklace without noticing.

She landed in a puddle of mud, and it was raining. She was almost instantly soaked, and her teeth clattered. It was freezing, and the sky had started going darker. The building she'd seen twice before was still to her front, but it was half demolished, and three men were backing away from it, seemingly having finished their job and about to head home. One man still stood on its roof, and his eyes were suddenly drawn to Hermione. Having noted her sudden unexplained appearance, the man pointed to her and opened his mouth to shout something. Having realised her error, Hermione shushed him before clutching the necklace.

She landed on a hard ground. It was a smooth, sleet pavement. She cursed, before noting the new, wooden building to her front. There was a window in the back, and a soft yellow light glowed through. The silhouettes of people laughing and drinking moved around. She clutched the necklace.

Five more times she landed in the same spot, each time noting a change in the scenery. About to trigger another trip, Hermione readied herself for another landing on her back, but found that she did not move. She tried again, holding the necklace more firmly, but it did not budge. She cursed, then opened her hands, and found that neither the dials nor the spherical ribbons were moving. The necklace seemed to be intent on staying.

Deeming it a lost cause, Hermione found that she had to give credit to the necklace for being more stubborn than her. She stood up, her legs aching, and she stretched her arms into the air. The building was still wooden, but it now consisted of three floors, multiple windows and a backdoor. She noted that she was now surrounded by a high fence and patches of yellow grass. The sloping roof was covered in rectangular plates of wood, giving the impression that it was higher than it actually is.

With quick, measured steps, Hermione moved to the front of the building and into the street. It was crowded, bustling with people, who walked without mercy whatsoever, rushing in and out of doors and knocking her aside when she stood in the same place for too long. Many people glared at her, whispering amongst themselves while pointing at her. She glared at them back, pointedly keeping eye contact, before finally realizing that they were pointing at her clothes. She did not have her robes on, and her jumper was soaked, and her jeans torn and tattered. Suddenly, she felt extremely vulnerable.

A small stand by the edge of the street caught her attention, and she took rapid steps in its direction, uncaring of the people in the way. She bumped a few shoulders and deemed it as her own special type of karma.

A little boy stood with tertiary coloured clothes, and a dark olive green cap covering the left side of his face. He shouted in the direction of the speeding crowds, a rolled newspaper in his hands. Hermione stood in front of him, but he did not register her presence.

"Excuse me?" she said. Her throat was raw from lack of use. She coughed and tried again, "Hey!"

Still, the boy would not respond, ceaselessly shouting pointless things about the latest, most spiciest titles.

Narrowing her eyes, Hermione stepped closer and snatched the newspaper in the boy's hand. He gasped before narrowing his eyes at her in return.

"Listen, kid. You've got a potential customer here and you aren't giving me any attention."

Snorting, he grabbed the newspaper back from her, looking down his nose at her attire.

"Ye, like you got any money on you, ye? Ger'off m'face, you bloody ol' beggar."

Her eyes widened, and she gasped.

"Beggar my arse! My family could buy you, you rude, insolent boy. Give me that," she said, picking up one of the newspapers on the stand. The head said _The Daily Prophet_, and Hermione was surprised that it was being sold on the streets. Before she could look further, the boy had grabbed the newspaper from her clutch again.

"Pay upfront, bubs."

Sighing, Hermione waved her hand. "You're not even worth it."

The words had just barely come out of her mouth before he placed the newspapers back on the stand and resumed shouting.

She faced the building she'd seen earlier, and with some surprise, noted that it was the Three Broomsticks.

Pulling her sleeves up, Hermione ran back across the road, and as she approached the door, she reached out to push the handle. But instead of opening the door, Hermione crashed straight into a person walking outside, and promptly fell on her bottom. She shouted, and cursed.

"How many more times am I going to fall on my arse before you get tired of it?!" She screamed at the sky, throwing her hands into the air. She looked up at the person _so _obviously guilty of her demise, and scowled.

A group of young men in school robes towered over her. At the very front, one of the tallest figures seemed momentarily surprised, before sneering at her. His brown hair was messy, and his eyes distraught. His Ravenclaw blue tie was undone.

He and his companions quickly moved away, leaving her on the floor. Annoyed, and finding them to be extremely rude, Hermione stood up, patting at her clothes. Her bottom ached dully.

Pushing the door open, Hermione was greeted by the loud laughter of many students hanging around the tables. Affected by the horrible treatment she had received moments before, Hermione pushed through them, ignoring their protests, until she reached the bar. She plopped herself down on one of the tall, wooden stools, and promptly slammed her head on the table and stretched her arms in front of her. She sighed, tiredly, and shut her eyes.

She was woken a few minutes later by the worried _tap tap tap _on her elbow. She lifted her hair up, ignoring the locks of hair covering her eyes, before looking at the smiling woman in front of her.

"You alright, dear?"

The woman's red lips spread in a genuine smile, her white teeth perfectly aligned. Small wrinkles surrounded her green eyes. She ran a hand through her blonde, wavy hair, aligning it back to perfection.

Hermione found herself smiling despite herself; the woman seemed so delightful.

Shrugging, Hermione straightened up and grinned at the woman. "Sorry about that. It's been a long day."

Laughing, the blonde woman waved her hand towards Hermione. She picked up a bright red towel and started drying some bright, gleaming glasses. She leaned over the table towards Hermione.

"Rough apparition, eh?"

Hermione grimaced, and stopped herself from rolling her eyes. "You have no idea."

The woman exchanged a few words with a female student, before instantly filling four glasses with butterbeer and sliding them towards her. The girl skilfully caught them, before saluting the bartender and walking away.

"So what brings you here? Your accent doesn't sound like anyone's I've heard."

Raising her eyebrows, Hermione's mouth opened into a small 'o'.

"O-oh. No, I'm not. I've lived in a small British community in America for the past few years," she lied, making sure her body language doesn't give her away. She remained as relaxed as she could. What time was she in? Was the difference so big that the people's accents had actually changed?

The woman giggled, her eyes glancing at Hermione's hair momentarily. "I've never met anyone from America! They're so secluded nowadays, too, so I don't think we've got any around here. I'm Madam Rae, by the way. And you?"

Hermione's smile stiffened as she quickly thought. Giving her real name might cause some difficulties, because she still didn't know how far or how ahead she was. Her mind working quickly, Hermione stretched out her hand, palm open, towards Madam Rae.

"I'm Hermione. Hermione Grimshaw."

They shook hands, and Hermione visibly relaxed.

"So what brings you here?" Madam Rae asked, filling more glasses with butterbeer.

"Oh- nothing, really. I have some family in the UK I wanted to visit." Hermione fiddled with the edges of her sleeves. "And my parents used to tell me so much about Hogwarts, so I wanted to come see."

Madam Rae reached under the counter for a tall glass, and _accio_'d a bottle of mead from a shelf at the top.

"Lovely! Where are you staying, then?"

Hermione shrugged. "No idea. Have you got any available rooms?" She knew this establishment was just a pub, but she hoped she wouldn't have to stay somewhere too far from here. She was not yet comfortable.

Pouring the discoloured liquid into the glass, Madam Rae grinned at Hermione. "That I do."

Hermione beamed. "Oh god, thank you," she said. "I just, um, need a quick favour. Do you have a quill and some parchment or paper?"

Handing the glass to an old, frowning man, Madam Rae nodded. "Yes, just give me a moment," she said, before walking to the back.

Moving her hands to her lap, Hermione looked around the pub. A heavy hand suddenly landed on her shoulder, and she flinched. Her hand instantly went to her pocket, before she remembered she didn't have her wand. She spun her head to her side, her bun untying itself in the process.

"E-ey, there… d-_hic!_- d'you want some company, sweetheart? I like-_hic!_- your undergarments."

Hermione narrowed her eyes at the student, her stare unwavering as she reached her to her back and pulled her jumper down.

A group of students joined them, and one of them pulled the offending person away, laughing. Two others argued as one gave the other a handful of galleons, the others standing behind them. Hermione noted their majority was wearing Slytherin ties.

They suddenly quietened down, and they tried to hurry away from the counter, but then one more student joined, towering over them.

He was pale as porcelain, his skin smooth and clear, and his cheekbones protruded almost artfully, casting shadows on his angular face. His eyes were narrow, and his hair a wavy, tar black. His lips were pale, plump, and his nose straight and patrician-like.

Hermione's eyes widened, and her jaw fell. Then it firmly lodged itself back into place, and she gulped.

"Did you spike his drink with firewhiskey? Rosier, detention, two weeks with Filch should do you good, yes?"

The student who was pulling his friend gaped, speechless. Without a reply, he gulped, and solemnly nodded.

"The rest of you. Back to school. I expect to see you in your common room."

The group of students hurried out. Hermione followed them with her gaze. The one sitting next to her had fallen to the floor before being picked up by two others. She smiled evilly, absentmindedly patting her lower back.

She was brought out of her reverie by the sound of someone clearing their throat. She turned back around, and found that she had to look up to be able to look at his face. She stared pointedly at his straight nose, finding his eyes too intimidating to look at. She mentally slapped herself.

"Are you alright?"

Nodding excessively, Hermione waved her hand around. Her throat felt blocked, and no sounds would come out.

"Sorry, the fifth years tend to go a bit wild. We usually only let sixth and seventh years in here, but one of our professors thought we'd loosen up a bit," he said, smiling, and Hermione finally looked at his eyes, and something seemed wrong, just so incredibly _wrong_ about what was happening. His teeth were pearl white and flawless, and his lips were a healthy pink.

"If everything's alright, I just need to go check on the students," he said, after several moments of silence. The Head Boy badge shone on his robes, and something about the metallic gold just made her _sick, _so she nodded, forcing a smile, hoping she'd pass off for embarrassed.

He walked away, and Hermione found that she could not- _would_ not- take her eyes off him. He headed towards a crowded table in the back. He didn't have the idiotic, arrogant walk people of his age usually do, and his steps were graceful and deliberate, his long legs covering absurd distances and his robes billowing lightly behind him.

Madam Rae finally came out from behind, hurrying to send out a few orders before coming back towards Hermione. She placed a small, beige paper on the counter, and a black quill. Hermione looked up, and Madam Rae smiled reassuringly. "The ink automatically refills," she said, almost proudly.

Hermione, still distraught, and feeling like she was missing something, rolled her wrists. "Sorry, but I kind of hurt my hand on the trip, and I'd like to write to my parents- could you maybe write me the date and address at the top right? I'll do the rest when I'm upstairs, I just need to rest my hand for a while."

Madam Rae looked at Hermione, her left eyebrow raised, before reaching out for the quill.

"You know what? I don't usually do this, but you're such a sweet girl and I don't think I can say no to your lovely smile. Here," she said, quickly writing down on the paper.

Hermione covered her still blushing face with her hands, attempting to control her heartbeat, and hoping her carelessly thought out request didn't make her look suspicious. Noting her slumped shoulders, Madam Rae asked if she was feeling alright.

Simply waving her hand in the direction of where she knew the student she'd just met was sitting, Hermione sighed, frustrated, and looked up at Madam Rae.

She looked at Hermione for a few seconds, her eyes widened, before suddenly bursting into laughter. She threw her head back, and her hair moved just enough to show a pair of beautiful silver dangly earrings with small red rubies. Madam Rae flipped her hair back, still laughing, before slamming her fist on the table.

"Oh- Oh god, sorry," she breathed, still panting.

Hermione narrowed her eyes at her, and still did not reply.

"I see you've met our Tom Riddle. Good looking fellow, isn't he? If I was a few years younger…"

Hermione stiffened.

"T-Tom-"

Tom Riddle.

Tom Riddle.

_Tom Riddle._

Hands shaking, Hermione reached out to the letter in front of her

At the top right, the first line was written in curved, neat handwriting.

_Saturday, 21__st__ October, 1944._

"Fuck."

* * *

**A/N:** Hello! What did you guys think? I was _too_ excited to post this chapter since I've had it written for like, _three weeks,_ and I felt like the prologue was pretty short. And also Tom Riddle. Pretty much. Yeah. Hermione's little fluster-splutter scene is like, me personified. Also, during Hermione's jumps in the beginning of the chapter, did you notice anything interesting? *steeples fingers and cackles a little bit* *coughs* *chokes and falls off chair*.

Read and review! I'm posting updates on this fic on my tumblr (same name, or just check my profile) and making graphics/gifs for each chapter. Feel free to follow me there! Updates will be on Tuesdays, hopefully.


	3. Chapter Two: Remain

**A/N: **I realize it's still Monday according to a lot of people's time zones, but it's been Tuesday for two and a half hours for me! I'm posting really (_really_) early because I have hospital rounds today. Hahahaha. Hah. Ha... *faints*

* * *

Hermione sat up in bed.

The window was shut, and the curtains closed. They were the same bright red as the towels downstairs, though they were much less frayed.

Sighing, she considered going back to sleep and not bothering getting up at all. She felt demotivated, and just... _purposeless._ It killed her. The pseudo-letter Madam Rae had written for her lied on the bed counter, next to the necklace. Both items made her equally sick.

Her eyes blank, she suddenly realized that the strange void in the middle of her core felt infinitely worse than the pain of anything she'd ever experienced.

_I'm in the completely wrong time. _

Abruptly, she recalled the image of a screaming McGonagall, and it occurred to her that the professor had been frantically searching everywhere for something.

Had she known that this was what could happen when someone held it? When someone held this… time turner?

Stunned, Hermione felt the effects of everything triple as she finally gave in and thought of the name of what started all of this. Had she actually managed to transport through god knows how many years just by _holding_ a time turner? In her third year, the one she'd gotten from professor McGonagall would work by spinning its dial, and one spin meant only one hour, not _fifty four bloody years._

She held her head in her hands.

What about Harry? And Ron? And Ginny, and Mrs Weasley, and Fleur, and Dennis Creevey, who'd cried over his brother's corpse for hours, and George, whose demeanour was uncharacteristically melancholic, his eyes red and dry and his chest heaving, and that fourth year Ravenclaw girl who'd stayed hidden behind the statues until everything had been resolved, and yet always had a delightful, almost manic smile on her face despite the hardships she'd gone through, the things she had _seen_, or that Slytherin seventh year whose name she never asked about, who'd helped her after she'd almost fainted in the end of the battle, holding her arm warily and flushing in embarrassment when she'd thanked him profusely. What would they think? How _were _they? Did they see her disappear? They must have been, if it wasn't noticeable at first, her Deputy Headmistress' scream must have attracted a lot of attention. Did they realize what had happened? Were they trying to get her back?

She needed a plan.

Throwing the blanket aside and getting off the bed, Hermione went to the bathroom, forwent a shower, avoided the mirror at all costs, and tried with all her might to supress her current throng of emotions. She found Madam Rae sitting on a stool behind the counter, sipping from a large polished mug and reading a magazine. There were very few people around, and those who were looked groggy with sleepiness. She assumed that it was still pretty early.

Madam Rae looked up, glancing grimly at Hermione's hair.

"Darling, do you need some help with your hair?" She said, nodding towards Hermione's head. "I think I can show you to the place where I-"

Hermione slammed her hands on the table, palms downwards, fingers splayed. Madam Rae jumped in her seat, the liquid in her mug swishing dangerously.

"I'm very well aware of what my hair looks like and I'm very much at peace with it, thank you."

Madam Rae blinked, but otherwise did not move.

"Look. I got some… bad news… from my f-family-" it hurt to say it, to say _family _and imagine all the faces back in her time- her _actual_ family- "and it looks like I'll be hanging around for a while," Hermione said, her voice involuntarily wavering. Madam Rae made a concerned face, but Hermione ignored it. "So is the room you gave me available for a few… more _months_ maybe?"

Hermione cringed inwardly. A few _months?! _Is that how long she'd deduced her stay was going to be?

Quirking her eyebrow, Madam Rae looked up at Hermione. "Sure, dear. But, I mean, you could barely afford the rent yesterday night, are you sure you'll be able to make it on the long run?"

A little part of Hermione admired Madam Rae's boldness, but for the most part, she groaned at the memory of yesterday's fumbling in her pockets for money. She stood there, quiet, for a few moments, before coming to a brilliant, albeit risky solution.

"I need a job," she whispered, almost to herself.

Instantly, Madam Rae brightened. "Wonderful! I need someone to help me in the kitchen, since the last fella made a pass at one of my waitresses and I had to let him go." She paused. "You don't happen to have a thing for waitresses, do you?"

Hermione spluttered, almost choking. "G-god, no! I positively do _not_ have a _thing_-"

Laughing, Madam Rae placed a reassuring hand on Hermione's. "Just kidding, dear," she said, "but really. It _is _alright if you do-"

Grimly, Hermione narrowed her eyes at the woman. "I would _never_ get distracted by… by such foolery from my job, whatever it might be!" Madam Rae grinned, obviously supressing laughter. "Either way, I'm h-horrible with kitchens. I-I burn things."

Tapping her chin thoughtfully with her manicured finger, Madam Rae eyed Hermione. "Tell me. Are you good with potions? Potion ingredients? Organizing them?"

Hermione slammed her hand on the counter, and inwardly recoiled when Madam Rae jumped in her seat again. "Yes! Perfect! Thankyouthankyou_thankyou-_" Delighted, Hermione sat on one of the stools after promising not to make any more sudden moves, and listened patiently to Madam Rae's directions.

* * *

Thirty minutes later, having washed up, had coffee, and blindly fixed her hair to Madam Rae's guidance, Hermione walked the streets of Hogsmeade, occasionally checking the piece of paper in her hand for directions. The apothecary Madam Rae had told her about was not far away, but due to the completely irrational and badly planned layout of the olden Hogsmeade, Hermione found that she had to swerve and turn the same streets more than a few times to find the landmarks Madam Rae had told her about.

A strange sense of loneliness pervaded Hermione, and she realized that this was probably the first time she'd been to Hogsmeade on her own.

Hermione neatly folded the instruction sheet as she finally arrived at the designated street. Exactly two buildings after an abandoned, six floor-high workshop, there was a peculiar little garden, which she immediately hurried to, relieved.

When she first laid eyes on the apothecary, Hermione almost tripped. _Maybe I should have just stayed back and burnt food for a living_, she mused. The shop was a stout concrete building, its walls a sad, sleet grey, a direct contrast to the buildings around, and the green courtyard-slash-garden in the front. The walls were cloudy with age-old dust, and the displays damp and shoddy. The only lively looking thing about the situation was a large flowered plant that stuck to the entire left half of the apothecary. Its stems were thick and its leaves countless, and it looked way too heavy to be able to have such a firm handle on the wall. The thing just screamed _precarious._

Taking careful steps, and shouting when she almost slipped on a torn poster on the damp, freshly cut grass, Hermione approached the entrance. She held her sleeve over her hand and had to force the dirtied handle open, and once she did, a delightful, sweet smell wafted towards her.

Unfortunately, it was immediately followed by the sound of a loud explosion.

Instantly thrust backwards, Hermione felt herself being propelled through the air, the apothecary growing smaller and_ smaller_ and the air whistled through her ears-

For the umpteenth time, Hermione landed on her bottom.

This time around, instead of getting up or screaming or swearing, Hermione simply sat there, her head in her hands, quietly cursing her atrocious luck. Her bum throbbed with a continuous pain, but she felt peculiarly accustomed to the sensation.

A small boy, no older than five years old, ran out the door. A small strand of his hay coloured hair was on fire, and his face was charcoal black, the whites of his green eyes contrasting horridly with his explosion-induced complexion. Before Hermione could comment on the little flame on his head, he screamed and instantly dropped to the wet grass, rolling with the type of fervour one might get when realizing they are in mortal danger.

Which he probably was.

The creaky door swung open once again, letting out a tanned, tall, wiry man, with an intense widow's peak and a salt-and-pepper moustache that covered his entire mouth. When he spoke in a rough, roguish manner, it moved almost comically.

"Isimud! Oh, oh Merlin, Merlin help me, Merlin for_bid_, are you alright, lad?!"

The boy in question stood up, attempting to brush off the soggy mud from his yellow-brown tunic. He covered his mouth and coughed, then spat a wad of grass into his hand. Hermione's eyebrows shot up.

The man only noticed Hermione sitting on the ground when the boy nodded towards her, making a face that spoke volumes of how embarrassed he felt.

Moustache twitching, the man narrowed his eyes at her before they suddenly widened. Throwing his arms in the air, he exclaimed, "Miss Hermione Grimshaw!" He appeared to have completely forgotten about the young boy as he sprinted towards Hermione, pulling to an abrupt but surprisingly stable stop, a foot away from her figure. He stretched out a large hand in her direction. "You _must_ be her, you see, the lovely Madam Rae just sent me an owl- only minutes ago, it seems, but it feels as if I'd been waiting for for_ever_- welcome, dear, welcome! _So _sorry about all that, I promise you it's not really _that_ common an ordeal, not _really_-"

Hermione took his hand, reluctantly, and stood up. Though the man was horridly tall, his small, fragile  
body type had made him look much littler from afar. She had to tilt her head upwards to talk to him, and when she did, her mouth dropped open. She felt like she'd seen him before. Was he-?

"M-my apologies if I've made you wait, I'm rather… unaccustomed to the streets."

He let out a rich, deep chuckle, and Hermione recoiled from the sound. She suddenly knew who this laugh reminded her of.

"My dearest- no problem at all! See, _my _first time in this _Hozmeeg_-" He signalled with his arm forwards, and waved the boy over, who glared at her critically- "I was lost for _fifteen_ days! _Fifteen, _see, because I couldn't speak English, and I'd snapped my wand into three parts. Three! Well- it wasn't until I met this lovely, _lovely_ man that _fixed_ my wand and taught me how to do an _Inter Language_ spell did I start understanding anything, tricky piece of magic, it is-"

Hermione blanked out for the rest of the man's speech, and it wasn't until he opened the door and waved her inside that she remembered.

"I'm sorry but- Madam Rae never told me your name," she interrupted.

He seemed momentarily startled, as if he'd forgotten she was there as the words spilt out of his mouth, but regained his composure and nodded fervently. "Yes, yes, good point. I'm Master Hornby Gridlock- lovely to meet you, please come in-"

She stepped into the apothecary, and felt a sudden disappointment. It had a particularly bland, dull brown interior, with countless shelves arranged in an unpleasantly irregular manner, carrying a myriad of different jars. She'd unconsciously stopped walking, as if her body was preventing itself from entering for her psych's own wellness.

Master Gridlock puffed out his chest, understanding her sudden halt incorrectly. "Yes, yes, I've been collecting these for my entire life- see these Torch-Troll Pouches here? Travelled all the way to a little place near Salvador, see, took me weeks to get them, I've never spent _so_ much _time_ in a magical swamp before!"

When he laughed, Hermione forced a smile and tried to laugh along, but it came out hollow.

"Anyhow, Miss Grimshaw, this is Isimud, my little helper- I call him Isimud because really, he sends out all of my orders, and he's got one hell of a tongue on him, _no _idea what his real name is, never wanted to tell me. Moving on, then, Madam Rae tells me you're _very_ organized, or at least you say you are- I'm really not, as you can see," he nodded towards a dozen jars sitting on a worktable, all opened with no labels whatsoever, covered in thick, black ashes- Hermione instantly recognized the scene as the cause of the explosion when Isimud narrowed his eyes at the table and avoided walking in its proximity at all costs.

Anxious, and feeling incredibly vulnerable, Hermione watched Master Gridlock slide behind a counter, open a ledger and jot something down with a superfluous swish of his hand. His overly extravagant attitude once more reminded her of her old and temporary potions professor, but just when the question _Do you know Professor Slughorn?_ was on the verge of spilling out, she bit her tongue.

_You are not home._

_You own nothing, but have so much to lose._

_Watch your tongue._

She repeated the mantra in her head until Master Gridlock signalled for her attention.

"So, Miss Grimshaw, let me show you where you'll be working today! Isimud, go close those jars- I said _close _those_ jars _young man do _not _make me say it _again_-"

The rest of Master Gridlock's introduction blended in on itself, as she was lead around the apothecary and through the storage rooms, with the man chuckling when she jumped in shock at the utter disarray of the latter. He showed her the bathrooms in the back, which were positively shining in a direct contrast to the rest of the place, then he gave her the directions to a nearby restaurant and offered to walk her to get breakfast for herself, for which she had instantly lied and said she'd already had breakfast at the Three Broomsticks.

After a very brief and rather awkward discussion about Hermione's salary, as she had had no idea what the value of money was and had resorted to doing quick calculations in her head based on the prices of the room and the food offered on Madam Rae's minimal menu, Master Gridlock left her to her own devices. She steered towards the storage rooms, thankful for the privacy it provided from the front area of the store. She spent the first few hours of the morning cleaning up the space by hand, remembering how her mother used to do the same thing- humming as she swept the floor and smiling at Hermione from the other side of the window.

Helen Granger was never a woman who would choose to become a housewife, unlike almost every other woman in their neighbourhood had. They'd never had a classic Dad works and Mom cleans household- they shared the same profession, even the same dental clinic, and always split up their work, be it with their patients at their dental centre or the household. It was always something they'd prided themselves in.

Later, Isimud walked in on her as she was pulling the thick curtains apart. The extremely dusty storage room was now significantly cleaner, and Hermione was positive the floorboards hadn't seen daylight in years.

"You look horrible," said Isimud, walking inside. He tried to mask his surprise at seeing the room in such a good state, but failed, his young features giving him away. His green eyes looked at her quizzically. "Why do you need a job anyway?"

Narrowing her eyes, Hermione was about to retort meanly when she saw the look on Isimud's face. He wasn't attempting to be rude, but was genuinely curious, and evidently much too blunt. It must have been odd for him to see a working woman. She wondered if Madam Rae had received similar comments.

Before she could reply, Isimud continued. "Master Gridlock can't tell the difference between toad tongues and frog tongues, which is ridiculous, really, since apparently _I _can. He mixed frog ones instead of toad ones with powdered Curled Baboon Toenails, and, uh… I'm not sure, but I think he'd actually spilt something from his drinking flask in there, too. I was looking inside the cauldron because Master Gridlock was too busy cutting something up, and the cauldron exploded. Dematerialized, actually. Burnt my shirt, too," he said. Hermione realized the left collar of his shirt was missing. "So, valuable lesson, Miss. Don't ever look inside the cauldron. Even if you're, like, immortal or something."

A smile spread on Hermione's face, and she felt thankful, _actually _thankful- then she leaned on the wall, looking at Isimud.

"Thank you. I-I'll be careful."

He nodded at her. His posture was straight but stiff, and he carried himself with radiating confidence that seemed beyond his years.

"It's Ashwinder eggs season again, so we're getting a lot of orders for these. People usually start storing them to trade later on when Valentine's comes rolling in." He wound through the shelves and skilfully picked out a jar from a teetering pile that Hermione had avoided approaching without magic. "I usually do the house calls unless someone who owns house-elves sends one to pick them up. Master Gridlock is scared of them so I'll always give them their stuff. I don't mind them, but sometimes the Blacks send this really grumpy one, and he just scares me. His nose looks like a little tree branch. "

Isimud jumped over the box Hermione had intended on carrying. "Later," he said, over his shoulder.

Hermione waved at him feebly.

He disappeared outside in seconds, so Hermione carried the box and followed. She saw Master Gridlock counting coins and placing them in a drawer in his counter, which he magicked shut. The front door closed with a thud, and Hermione observed as a tall woman with a hat and overly elaborate robes walked away. Isimud quickly had a few words with Master Gridlock, snatched a few Knuts from the counter and ran outside the door, holding lots of paper bags in his small hands. The weather outside was much brighter than before, and Hermione judged it to be nearing midday.

The tall man turned around and faced Hermione, his moustache twitching contemplatively. "Young Isimud tells me you did a lot of work back there! And so fast, too, god bless Madam Rae," he said, stepping towards Hermione and patting her back.

She almost toppled over even though he hadn't pet her that roughly, but the weight of the wooden box in her hand wasn't easy to carry. She spluttered and looked upwards.

"I can't open this box," she said, ignoring his previous statement for no particular reason, "and I don't know if it belongs with all the potion ingredients or one of the other rooms."

Master Gridlock let out an _ah_ of understanding, but his hands suddenly stopped moving, as if confused. The question of '_why couldn't you just open the box with a simple spell?_'seemed to be on the tip of his tongue, but he furrowed his thick eyebrows and took the item in question from her. Hermione had never felt so hapless.

Hermione knew four lock-opening spells and seven lock-disintegrating spells.

But she couldn't cast a single one.

He placed the box on a worktable and tapped it twice, muttering something indistinguishable under his breath. The lid snapped open, and he peered inside.

"Oh, just an old collection of potions books, really. Feel free to borrow any of those, if you like reading, not many ladies like these subjects, but you know, knowing some stuff about them may help and all…"

Hermione nodded. "Thank you, I _do_ like reading," she said. She lifted the box from the table, the open lid reaching a height that covered her face from view. "I'm sure I'll have some time, but there's still a lot to do in the back-"

She was interrupted by the sound of the front door opening, creaking with the force of another customer. Master Gridlock's attention was suddenly ripped from her, as he turned his body towards his counter. His eyes shone with something unidentifiable, but something positive. She felt oddly insignificant. Then she berated herself for being so petty.

"My boy! My boy, how do you do?"

Hermione stood quietly, feeling completely unprepared. She had hoped not to make an appearance to any passer-bys in a feeble attempt to keep her existence private, so she hid behind the heavy book-box in her arms.

But she'd completely ruined that plan the moment she walked into the Three Broomsticks on a Hogsmeade weekend, hadn't she?

She'd talked to Madam Rae, and she talked to a group of Hogwarts students (or, rather, was talked _to_) and she'd even talked to Tom _Fucking _Riddle-

"Master Gridlock, pleasant to see you."

Shite.

The smooth, refined voice rang clear between the wooden walls, and they all suddenly expanded then contracted, _constricted_ and she couldn't breathe and _no no no no no_, _not again NOT AGAIN what_ have _I DONE_-

"Thank you ever so much, Tom. How can I help?"

She was trembling, shivering, and suddenly her arms felt weak, her legs felt useless _useless _and a sudden burn, a horrible stinging _burn_ raced through her veins, her muscles, and the pain was _unbearable_ and she couldn't tell if it was _physical_ or _psychological_ or _what_-

The box fell from her hands, the wooden base breaking and splintering as it landed on the floor. The books spilt out, one particularly heavy tome landing with a quiet thud.

Their quiet conversation, which Hermione had not been the least bit able to listen to, suddenly quieted down. The sound of a quiet breeze was suddenly substantially louder. The two others stared at her in apparent surprise for a long, stilled moment that felt like _ages, centuries_-

The room suddenly snapped and Master Gridlock took rapid steps towards her, leaning on the floor next to her- _she hadn't even realized she was on the floor, or that her head throbbed in pain_- and started to gather the books together. With his wand hand, he waved and whispered a strange incantation loudly and the box reformed, but the noise wasn't clear, and she felt him talking to her, consoling her and placing a comforting arm on her back, but the only thing she could _see_ was him, _Him, HIM,_ and he had a pitying, sympathizing smile on his face, but she could see his eyes and they were lying, lying, they were contempt and _disgust _and she KNEW it, she _knew_ he wanted to look at her and _her kind_ and _sneer _in disdain and dislike and _hatred HATRED_- because he was Tom Riddle Jr. He was You-Know-Who, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named-, The Dark Lord, _Voldemort, VOLDEMORT-_

"…your head? Are you bleeding?"

Her ears popped and Hermione found Tom Riddle approaching her, taking long measured steps and his belt came into view, his perfectly polished belt, and he leaned down, his face unblemished, his china-skin _perfect perfect perfect-_

He reached into his pocket and she recoiled, letting out a whimper of horror, _that wand the wand I KNOW this WAND-_ and he waved it over her head, and a sudden, _unbearable_ pain reverberated through her temples, but just as fast it was gone, and she felt her skin heal and stitch back in itself with horrible precision. She knew this spell. She casted it on Neville when he was fifteen and she sixteen, when they were in the Room of Requirement and Luna had hit him with such a powerful Stupefy that-

"T-thank you."

She spoke before her thoughts could carry her away.

She knew she couldn't afford reminiscing in a time like this.

Riddle offered her a hand, but she pretended that she didn't notice it, bowing her head and hiding her eyes, wishing she had left her hair down. She used the table to lift herself up, and she saw his hand, _his_ hand, with its long, tapered fingers, and its neatly cut nails, and it was pointed almost accusingly in her direction.

Once she stood up, she pretended she'd only just noticed his hand, and nodded with an apologetic grimace, barely avoiding his eyes.

"Sorry, Tom, Miss Grimshaw's still new here- first day, actually, but she's done _such_ a good job so far, really."

Riddle was shorter than Master Gridlock, yet there was still something about his bearing that made him seem all the more superior. He smiled. "We met miss yesterday, but only now am I familiar with your name. Pleasure"

He did not offer a handshake.

She stood for a few moments as Master Gridlock explained that Hermione was a person of few words, and she laughed bitterly at the irony. Riddle only spared her a quick glance, continuing to listen to the older man and nodding accordingly. Master Gridlock was obviously enamoured by Riddle's flawless _fucking_ self.

Riddle then excused himself, nodding towards her courteously, moving to browse in the small, extended part of the apothecary, instantly walking and shielding himself behind a shelf. She saw the flash of something dark, a box, rectangular and shallow, and she instantly recognized the box of crystallized pineapple, and she knew Riddle hadn't bought them for himself. It spurred an image of the same hands she'd seen as his fingers touched the black stone of the ring she hadn't seen in a year, the ring that shone with positive malice, as Tom Riddle whispered the word _Horcrux_ to Professor Slughorn-

"Ah, Miss Grimshaw, are you feeling better?"

"Yes." She did a double-take, as if she couldn't take her eyes off of Riddle- _which she couldn't- _and looked up at Master Gridlock. The lie fell smoothly from her lips. "Yes, I am. Thank you."

She held the wooden box and started to move towards the storage, away from everything, before Master Gridlock tapped her shoulder.

"I need you to take the counter for a second, darling, I need to talk to young Mister Riddle about something, he's brilliant, really, and yes. I don't think anyone else is coming, but I hate leaving the counter empty. Feels odd, see, I used to work with-"

Hermione nodded reassuringly, interrupting him. "No problem."

He ran off in a different direction before she could ask any of the questions going through her head, so she stepped behind the counter, put her head in her hands and waited.

Then it hit her.

This was Tom Riddle junior. Tom _Riddle _junior.

It was really fucking ironic how the time turner saw fit to take her _here_, wasn't it? And to plop her down right behind the Three Bloody Broomsticks, and give her a job right where she _really_ hoped _He_ doesn't frequent.

She recalled how she'd shoved the time turner behind her bedside counter, and pictured it lying innocently on the floor, presumably in the midst of countless dust bunnies.

She recalled how every single one of her professors had predicted she'd be the next Minister of Magic, and how in her fifth year, Professor McGonagall had told her that her first job out of school would most likely be something worthy of her extremely high calibre.

Instead, her first job was in an honest-to-god shitehole and she hadn't even graduated.

_Yet, _she told herself, hopefully. _I haven't graduated __**yet**__._

The front door creaked open, and Hermione's heart fell when she realized that she'd have to deal with this potential customer. She'd only had this job for a few hours and she already disliked it.

A tall student, with a young, kind face, marched into the apothecary. She thought he looked familiar, uncomfortably so, and her heart lurched. She hoped she wasn't going to meet any of her friend's ancestors.

It wasn't until a gust of wind from the closing door ruffled his hair, and his hands reached up to fix his blue tie that the events of last night came back to her.

She smiled bitterly.

"What can I do for you, kind gentleman?" The words slipped out before she could stop them, but oddly enough, she didn't regret them. At least Master Gridlock had had the decency to help her off the ground, but him? Right in front of the Three Broomsticks? No.

He looked up at her kind words with a sweet smile, but when he saw the look on her face, he faltered, confusion flashing momentarily in his powder-blue eyes.

"Do I… do I know you?" He asked, his eyes narrowing.

She sighed, her courage suddenly restoring. Hermione looked at her nails distractedly, spreading them in front of her and speculating their length. They were caked with dirt. "Not at all, not at all. Never met me, never seen me, not even when you pushed me to the floor in your apparent _flurry of anger_," she said, rolling her eyes at the last three words. She felt so out of character, but she didn't care, deciding that this young man was going to be her vent pillow for now. Everything in her screamed at her to _stop_, to seize her madness and stop elongating this conversation so she can just go in the back. She remained standing.

He looked baffled, and his mouth opened to protest before he closed it again. He recognized her, though hazily so.

Shuffling, the Ravenclaw bowed his head, embarrassed. "I-I'm sorry. God, I hadn't even noticed-"

"Yes, _obviously_-"

"-please, accept my apologies, miss, I went out of line, I _definitely_ was not myself that night."

His eyes bore into hers, and the stinging remark on her tongue was suddenly forgotten. Something about his eyes reminded her of someone she knew, of Ron, _Ron_, and she suddenly remember that no, she couldn't talk to him anymore, she couldn't call him or visit him or _hold_ him when she was feeling awful, like she was now, and she was mortified when tears suddenly sprang into her eyes, because she'd been desperately avoiding crying for the past day and now was _really_ not the time.

The young man in front of her suddenly looked distraught, and she realized that her eyes must have given her away. She rubbed at them angrily and looked at him, feigning the anger that had suddenly dissipated, replaced with unavoidable gloom.

"Oh my goodness- I swear I'm sorry- _god _what an_ idiot what _have I_ done _the lady's having_ a bloody breakdown-_"

Hermione's heart sped in trepidation, and she half-forced a giggle, seeing how distraught he looked. She waved her hands and her mouth quirked at the corners.

"I-It's alright, I'm allergic to the… smell of…" she looked to her side and found another open jar. "Lizard bladders," she said, frowning in disgust. Just her luck.

He looked sceptical, but did not protest. "Alright, but really, if there's anything I could do-"

"No, no, god, it's alright," she started, but he put his hand in the air, silencing her effectively.

"I don't even _know_ what had come over me. Please, let me make this up to you, Miss…"

Hermione's eyebrows arched in surprise. "Um, uh… H-Hermione Grimshaw…"

"Ah, lovely name," he said, and Hermione could almost hear him thinking- _I've never heard that name before_, so she forced a smile. "I'm Quentin Fawley."

They shook hands, and Hermione was struck by how Fawley had a natural, but easy charm to him. She felt herself relax in his presence.

"So what happened yesterday that got you all worked up?" she asked. His bright smile faltered. She didn't retract her question.

"N-nothing. I- my friends and I got into a little scuffle with-"

Master Gridlock's throaty laugh echoed suddenly, and quickly after he appeared, talking enthusiastically and fervently waving his hands around. Tom Riddle followed behind him, a look of polite interest on his face. He did not seem as passionate about the subject as its speaker.

Next to her, Fawley stiffened and scowled, his eyebrows furrowing.

"With _him_," he finished, his voice low.

Hermione suddenly remembered his undone tie and his messed up hair from the night before.

Before she could think of a reply, Fawley suddenly cleared his throat, fiddling with his tight collar and widening it. "Look, Miss Grimshaw, it was nice meeting you, and I'm very sorry about yesterday. I don't think I need to buy anything. Good evening."

He turned on his heel and walked back, but suddenly, his eye caught Riddle's, and he stopped.

Riddle's polished shoe thumped to a halt.

His narrow eyes suddenly widened, but it was so brief that Hermione almost missed it. His mouth was a thin, harsh line. His glare was ruthless.

Fawley suddenly huffed and broke eye contact, taking hasty steps outside.

The door slammed, and Master Gridlock suddenly stopped speaking.

"Thank you, Master Gridlock," said Riddle, after a few moments of tense silence. Hermione looked curiously upon the scene, until Riddle's intense eyes snapped to hers. She flinched and looked at her hands, desperately trying to conceal her face. Riddle walked towards the counter, leaving five Sickles and seventeen Knuts. She stared at the money, picturing the smooth hands that had just held them. The hands that held the yew wand, the wand that tortured and _maimed _and _killed_-

"Thank you for your service, Miss Grimshaw," a voice said, suddenly, but Hermione ignored it in favour of staring at the counter surface. "I hope you are feeling alright."

_I hope you are feeling alright._

She clenched her hands, and finally looked up. His eyes were tar black, and they glowed with something indiscernible, and suddenly, Hermione was hypnotized, and she couldn't _breathe_ and it was just the _exact _same feeling from before, so she straightened her back and stretched her mouth into a forced smile, tearing her eyes away from his.

"I'm feeling quite alright, thank you."

He looked at her for a few seconds, a questioning, pressing look on his face, and Hermione felt almost obliged to reply, but she stood still. Her cheeks were starting to hurt.

He gave her a stiff nod, then bid goodbye to Master Gridlock. Hermione peered at his arms, and found that he had bought a pack of Lesser Blue Dragonfly thoraxes, and gaped. This was a rare ingredient- _at least in my time_- and he'd bought one for such a reasonable price.

Master Gridlock waved her off, standing behind the counter, and he spoke to her, but she couldn't hear anything except a persistent ring in her ears, so she nodded when she felt it was appropriate and hummed when she felt it was necessary. Before she stepped into the storage, Master Gridlock called her name.

"Miss Grimshaw," he said, his grin barely visible under his extravagant moustache.

"W-what?"

He turned around. "Me and young Mister Riddle passed by the storage room while you were at the front. Both he and I commended your work, indeed, yes, very well done," he peered at her, arching one bushy eyebrow, but quickly looked away, whispering to himself, "how curious."

Hermione gulped, and turned around, but quickly turned back.

"Master Gridlock?"

"Yes, dear?" he answered, writing in his ledger.

"How come Mister Riddle bought a Lesser Blue thorax at such a low price?"

He looked at her questioningly.

"He left the money when I was standing." She cleared her throat. "And I looked into the ledger to check the price," she lied.

He formed an understanding 'o' with his mouth, fingering the end of his moustache. "Special customers always get special treatment, Miss Grimshaw."

With a final wink, Master Gridlock returned to writing in his ledger, dismissing her.

Hermione closed the door behind her and sunk to the floor. She vaguely heard the excited sounds of Isimud as he walked in and announced that he had received a generous tip, but she couldn't really pay attention.

She was so far from home.

She was so_ alone_.

She wrapped her arms around her knees and wept and heaved until her eyes were dry and her lungs burned.

* * *

**A/N: **Now, I've given the beginning of this story a _lot_ of thought, and I'd always felt like Hermione actually choosing to go to a 'different' Hogwarts as a seventh year would cause too many problems (which is _yes,_ usually totally my cup of tea. I love drama. Overzealously so...), and instead she'd probably try to stay as anonymous as possible, and as far away from professors/people from her future as she can. We'll still have Tomione contact/action, though. Seriously. Do you think their geographic locations will stop me from that?

The answer is no. Read and review, tell me what you think!


	4. Chapter Three: Purpose

**A/N: **Hello! I want to thank everyone for your super lovely reviews! I get my grades _and_ have hospital rounds today, so reading such kind words from you has helped ease my nerves. But I still feel kinda fucked, so- if I don't reply I've probably tossed my laptop outside the window and barred myself in my room with my cats and leftover pizza.

Hope you enjoy, you sexy bunch.

* * *

"Do you think he ever regretted it?"

Hermione's eyebrows furrowed as she looked up from her text, confused. Ron had suddenly stopped eating his porridge, and was absentmindedly toying with his spoon. His eyes were glazed over in thought.

"Pardon?"

Ron sighed. "You-Know-Who. Do you think he ever started to regret what he'd done?"

Scoffing, Hermione tapped the bowl in front of Ron, reminding him to finish. He idly shoved the empty spoon in his mouth.

"Regretted it? Are you serious?" She turned back to her text, disbelieving. "He allegedly made _seven_ Horcruxes, Ron. He wants to be _immortal_. He killed our friend's parents and made his life hell." She looked him in the eye. "I don't think he regretted it at all. He's sick, and he's heartless, and he deserved what's coming for him."

Ron's ears were reddening, and he spluttered. "I- Hermione, you _know_ I didn't mean it that way-"

"I know." She rubbed the bridge of her nose. "I'm sorry, I just- you know." She peered at him for a few seconds, finding his staggered expression endearing. She cleared her throat. "Finish your food, Ronald, we don't know how often we'll eat when we're on the run."

Ron shouted in mock horror, but then, seeing her point, started to actively shove porridge down his throat. Hermione turned back to her text. Her fingers curiously traced the words _Soul Magics_. When Crookshanks pounced on the table, Hermione eagerly left the puzzling text in favour of petting her familiar.

* * *

She woke up with a start, heaving, her breaths short and shallow.

She swallowed the lump in her dry throat.

The image of Ron sitting in front of her had felt so real, so _vivid_, and she could still feel his presence. Furiously wiping the tears from her eyes, Hermione clung to Ron's manifestation, and a sob tore itself from her throat when she felt it trail away into nonexistence.

It had been five days since her inopportune arrival. She opened the third drawer of her bedside table, and in the middle of a folded pile of paper napkins supplied by one of the waitresses, she pulled out the time turner by its chain.

Its surface seemed dull, and its glow feeble and melancholic, as if its isolation in her bedside drawer had taken its toll on it. Its middle was still wrapped with the blade of grass, which had started to yellow and crumple.

Hermione crossed her legs, and placed the time turner on the bed, hastily throwing the covers away and making sure not to touch the pendant. She wondered if she should touch it, and see whether the time turner would take her forwards or backwards, but she hesitated. What if she landed in this room while someone else is in it? She sighed, disappointed.

Straightening her back, Hermione raised her hand, her movements calculated, and muttered two words that she hadn't said for a long time.

"_Wingardium Leviosa."_

The pendant did not move. She could barely _just_ feel her magic lodged somewhere in her core, but it did not seem willing, as it used to be, when she had practiced her wandless magic in her sixth year. Not willing at_ all._

Master Gridlock seemed to think her magically incapable, now she was starting to feel the same way. She hadn't used magic since before she came here, and she thought she could actually feel herself deteriorate.

How could she survive this without magic?

She stepped out of bed, heading for the bathroom, wherein she fell asleep on the toilet for ten minutes, then woke up extremely embarrassed. She blindly threw some water at her face, then after a few minutes of contemplation, decided to head for the shower.

She slipped out of her undergarments, as she'd been sleeping in them for the past few days despite the cold, to avoid wrinkling the only clothes she had any more than they already were. She untied her hair from the bun she'd tied it into, and her hazelnut curls fell around her head. Hermione pulled on a lock until it was straight, and it recoiled when she let go. Her hair had gotten longer. She hadn't cut it in a year, she realized.

Feeling cold, Hermione approached the shower, turning the hot tap until it clicked.

One feeble drop of water battled its way out of the tap and fell into the tub.

"What?" she cried, tapping the shower pipe. She tried the cold water to no avail. "Come on, the _one_ day I actually feel like taking a proper shower…"

She angrily grabbed the towel, wrapping it around herself. It only reached to her mid-thighs. Exasperated, Hermione covered her shoulders with it, then roughly snatched the covers of her bed, cocooning herself.

Opening the door, Hermione peeked at the hallway for any wanderers. A small group of children suddenly ran by, their footsteps muffled by the dusty red carpets. Hermione briefly wondered if they were staying here and how they could possibly fit in such a small rooming system, but then a middle-aged woman suddenly appeared in the stairway, shouting at them to come back and threatening to take them back home if they ignored her. They reluctantly turned around, their shoulder slumped and bottom lips pouted in that exaggerated childlike way, and the hallway quietened.

Once she was sure they were gone, Hermione tiptoed towards the staircase, catching a glimpse of them racing to the door. She stuck herself to the wall, trying to glimpse Madam Rae's figure, but she couldn't. She cursed. If she'd just bothered wearing her clothes, she could've stepped down to see if she was there.

"Well, at least I will not be the only naked person in the hallway for today."

Hermione jumped at the sound, turning on her heel and instinctively taking a defensive stance. When the covers started sliding off, she held them with one hand against her chest.

The speaker was a tall woman, with long legs and protruding collar bones, and round, dark olive eyes. Her skin was dark, but her hands were white, and her lower arm had patches of the lighter skin, and it seemed as if she'd newly dipped her arms in something, and it had stayed there. She had only a towel on, but due to the height difference, it reached only to her upper thighs.

Her maroon lips spread in a smile, revealing rows of pearl white teeth. Hermione thought the woman's canines were unnaturally sharp.

"W-what do you mean?"

The woman took measured steps forward, but they still stood many feet apart. She opened a door labelled _Do Not Enter- Employees Only_ and reached inside, grabbing another towel. She started methodically drying her hair.

"I do not like Drying Charms. They ruin my hair," she shrugged. "What brings you to the hallway in your bed covers?" She tilted her chin forward, faintly smirking. "Or has your lover left your boudoir in the early hours in the morning?" She flipped her hair to the other side, switching hands to continue the drying process. "They always do that, dear. Learn to never get your hopes up."

Then, Hermione noted, was when she noticed the woman had an accent- with rolled r's and stilled, heavy t's and flat vowels. Her facial complexion and bridge-less, button nose seemed to add to the account that the woman was foreign.

"I- My _lover_ did not 'leave in the _early hours _of the _morning_'," she said, her face flushing, "I don't have time for this. Do you know where Madam Rae is? My shower-"

"-is not working?" The woman finished. "I would invite you to use mine, but it stopped working three months ago."

Hermione inwardly sighed, exasperated. She'd hoped anyone who'd stayed here stayed little enough so that she wouldn't have to deal with questioning neighbours.

She cursed at how she'd even wished for such an absurd notion as isolation.

"I use the one at the end of the hallway," continued the woman. "You will have to wait for a few minutes for the hot water to come back, unless you are the type to take their wand in the bathroom. These rooms were meant to be for storage, until the muggle war started. Lots of disruption, really, and business has been horrible since half of the population migrated to anywhere that is not Western Europe. The bathrooms are extensions, and the plumbing a makeshift system made by some inconspicuous group Madam Rae hired."

Hermione nodded, not finding it in her to thank the woman for her info drop right now.

"How long have you stayed here?" She asked instead.

The woman smiled. "Long. Very long."

Hermione couldn't help asking. "How come?"

The woman tilted her head, a minute, curious smile on her face, and Hermione spluttered. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to intrude-"

"You are not. It is simply more… _convenient_… living here. My work allows it, and so does Madam Rae."

"Allows it?"

"I work at home. I get many visitors over time."

Hermione's eyebrows furrowed in puzzlement, and the question was just on the tip of her tongue before the woman interrupted her.

"I am a woman of the night. A fille de joie. A streetwalker," she grinned in amusement. "A prostitute."

Understanding dawned on Hermione, and she nodded. "Oh, god, sorry, I've just had a very long day at work yesterday-"

"No problem."

They stood in silence for a few minutes, the only sound being the woman's hand movements. Her lengthy hair had suddenly shortened and marginally extended sideways, forming very small, tight curls.

"Go inside before someone thinks you are with me," she said. "Naked unmarried women usually only have one purpose if in your position-"

"How do you know I'm unmarried?" Hermione asked, her eyes narrowed defiantly.

The woman pursed her mouth in a challenging smirk. "You are standing naked in the hallway at five in the AM. If you had a husband with any form of decency, he would have gone to ask for help instead. You have no ring, and honestly," the woman said, shifting her stance, "you do not have the look of a married woman. Had you grown up in a big family, you would have been married off many years ago, I am sure."

Hermione unconsciously puffed her chest out and straightened her back in response to the woman's offensive posture. When she noticed, she chuckled, her laugh musical.

"Towels are in this room," she said, nodding towards the door she'd reached into before. Without another word, she walked backwards, and entered the last room in the opposite end of the hallway, her statuesque legs and wide hips swaying gracefully.

The lock clicked, and Hermione breathed out.

She walked towards the door, and frowned when the _Do Not Enter- Employees Only_ sign stared accusingly down at her. She opened the door and found that it wasn't a room, but a system of cupboards that extended diagonally in both directions. She grabbed a towel from a shelf next to the door, and closed it, feeling unhappy and as if she was trespassing where she shouldn't be.

Hermione walked down the hallway, sparing the door she'd just seen the woman walk into a quick glance, thinking she could hear the faint whispers of conversation inside. Once she found the bathroom, whose door was white instead of the cherry brown of the other rooms, she stepped in, sighing contentedly when a fresh wave of heat hit her face. Once she threw her small towel over the sink mirror, she turned the tap to run the hot water and unwrapped herself from the bed covers.

* * *

"Checkmate."

Hermione cried out in near-desperation. This was the third time she'd lost to Isimud only this morning.

Both of them had arrived early this morning, Isimud saying that he normally arrived before Master Gridlock. When she required why, he simply shrugged, saying that he preferred it that way, and that Master Gridlock usually liked it when Isimud was here first.

Isimud had extracted a very small board and a green, velvet bag from his backpack, and Hermione was delighted to find out that it was a muggle chess set. Apparently, Isimud did not like the violent nature of Wizarding chess either, and she relished in the moment that someone had actually shared this point with her. Too bad he'd been born over fifty years before she was.

They'd sat on the grass, and only when Isimud started rearranging the pieces, Hermione noticed that the dirtied plank of wood over the front door was actually a faded sign.

"Hey, Isimud?"

"Yeah?" he replied, not looking up. His nimble fingers finished placing the black pieces on one side, and he carefully spun the board, working on the white pieces.

"What does that sign say?"

He looked up at her curiously, back at the chess board, then at the direction she was looking at. His eyebrows rose up, as if reminded of something he had long ago forgotten.

"I think it says something like Gridlock's Astounding Apothecary, or something," he said, looking back down. "It had a small pun in fine print at the bottom. Some really bad pun about Master Gridlock not '_working by the_ _grid'_- whoever found it and told him would get a discount on their purchases."

Hermione hummed thoughtfully. "Did people ever find it?"

Isimud placed the last piece and leaned back, satisfied. "Rarely. People are impatient. Back then, there was a lot of business, anyway, so the small handfuls of discounts we _did_ give didn't make much of a difference."

_Back then? _"How long have you been working here? You still look very young."

The comment seemed to annoy Isimud, but he still replied. "I'm older than I look." He stood up, brushing grass from his trousers. "And smarter, too."

In the very same instant, Master Gridlock's footsteps pounded as he pounced away to avoid water puddles from last night's rain. He panted, his breath coming out in small clouds that evaporated as soon as they came in contact with the cold air.

Hermione, who had started shivering twenty minutes ago, thanked whoever was watching over her, and stood up, helping Isimud pack his chess set into his backpack. She smiled and waved, and Master Gridlock waved back as he walked into the small front garden. She prepared herself to walk into the door and _finally_ get a semblance of warmth, but as Master Gridlock threw the keys at Isimud, who caught it in mid-air, he turned to her expectedly.

"You've finished the storage room, yes?"

Hermione shuddered. "Almost, I only have the last two shelves to fix and adjust into alphabetical order-"

"Great! You don't have to do those." He threw his arms open, and walked in behind Isimud. Before she tried to step in, Gridlock tutted at her. "I need you to run an errand."

Hermione's eyes widened. "What? In this cold? I thought that was Isimud's job."

Isimud peered at her from inside, raising his eyebrows, and shrugging as if saying _no idea_. Nonetheless, he stuck his tongue out at Hermione and ran further in.

"Yes, dear, it's _always_ this cold in Britain, really, sometimes colder- anyway, I need you to pick up some books from this bookstore just down this street, I think it's called _Flour and Blotters_, or something- Isimud had a _horribly_ embarrassing incident over there a few months ago, and I've been waiting on this order for weeks, but oh- _poor_ Isimud, so unfortunate, this little girl, I think the owner's daughter, I think he _liked _her, see, _like _liked her, that is."

A shout sounded from the back, followed by quick, loud steps. "WHAT THE HELL-!"

"Now go off quick, Miss Grimshaw, before Isimud kills you, he told me not to tell anyone, see, but I think my tongue _might_ have slipped a few times-"

Something that sounded like a glass jar shattered inside. "What? WHAT?! YOU PROMISED YOU OLD _COOT_-"

Hermione ran before she could ask any more details about the order, and when she looked over her shoulder, she could just glimpse Isimud pulling on Master Gridlock's coat, and the older man laughing in delight, apparently unaffected by Isimud's induced tantrum.

She took the path back to the main street, then spent a few moments attempting to map out her location.

_If the Three Broomsticks is to my Northeast, then I'm…_

She suddenly realized that the path that lead to the apothecary and other assorted spots was where Zonko's used to be. _Rather, where Zonko's _will_ be._

She turned to her left and was instantly thrown into the slight morning traffic.

Hermione walked, her feet making _crunch_ noises as it impacted with the snow. She rubbed her hands together for warmth then shoved them in her pockets.

She was momentarily lost in thought, the faint image of the melancholic time turner floating in her eyesight.

Why had it changed appearance so drastically, overnight?

She'd only asked for the napkins the night before, claiming to need them for the sole purpose of blowing her nose. The waitress hadn't hesitated, but only because Hermione pretended to be about to sneeze, so the girl threw a napkin directly at Hermione's face, and left a pile on the counter, before leaving quickly to clean the tables. She looked utterly horrified at the idea of Hermione's snot making an appearance.

Did the time turner need sunlight? It didn't make sense, however, since it had made it through night times just fine before, and its stays in the drawer was also during the night. When she'd brought it out, the sun's edges were just barely on the horizon.

Hermione suddenly stopped at the sound of a screech, and she realized her foot was on something. She pulled it back, surprised, and looked up to find a woman pulling at her elaborate skirts, affronted, and looking at Hermione accusingly. Another woman, who looked a few years older, looked down at Hermione, a scowl adorning her delicate features.

"How _dare_ you! Stepping on my skirts! THEY'RE MORE EXPENSIVE THAN _YOU_ ARE!" Shouted the woman, taking off her lace gloves and batting at her skirts.

Hermione opened her mouth to say something, but in her shock, nothing seemed to come out. She raised her hands in a mixture of apology and surrender. The woman's volume hurt her ears.

"Calm, dear. Be calm. These are not the manners of a lady," said the other woman, her voice low. A group of onlookers seemed to gather around. Many had the look of recognition on their face, as if this was not the first time the younger woman had made a scene.

Hermione watched as the woman took a deep breath, quietening down. She gathered her skirts in her hands, her grip extremely tight, and she looked up at her Hermione. Her face was relaxed, but her eyes were harsh, in direct contrast.

"Clean them."

Hermione choked. "W-What?"

"I. Said. _Clean. Them._"

Confused, Hermione stepped back, surveying the scene in front of her.

"A normal _Scourgify_ won't work, of course," said the woman, her chin tilting up. The woman next to her looked on in approval. "Something more complex. Something that will take the dirt out and will not ruin the delicate fabric of my skirts."

"I-I can't-"

"Why not?" the other woman cut in, looking down her nose. "Are you incapable of cleaning spellwork? What kind of woman are you?" She then looked at Hermione, as suddenly comprehending her appearance. "Of course. You dress like a man. And you look like one. Surely, you're as useless as one."

Hermione scoffed, stepping forward. Both women recoiled, surprised. "I am most certainly not useless!" She shouted. "And what kind of _ladies of the society _talk like that?!"

"Clean it, then," said the younger woman. "Since you're apparently 'not useless'," she said, faking a smile. "Be of some use."

Hermione scowled. "No."

"Why? Don't you have a wand?"

Hermione didn't reply, her anger rising by the second.

"Ah," said the older woman, stepping forward. "You don't have a wand."

Hermione gulped. The woman had jumped to conclusions, but unfortunately, she was correct.

"Why don't you have a wand?"

Before Hermione could reply, the woman shushed her harshly. By then, the onlookers had started to move on, intimidated by the woman's malice.

"Because you are a filthy squib, aren't you"

The younger woman gasped in sudden horror, stepping back.

"_What?!_ I'm most _certainly_ not a squi-"

"Get AWAY, you vermin!" The two women suddenly started moving again, the younger one clutching her skirts. The older woman looked at Hermione, leering in disgust.

"Filthy squib!" a voice shouted, and a small boy suddenly ran up to her, throwing a balled up wad of snow. It struck her face, and she almost lost her footing in momentary blindness.

When she wiped the snow off her face, Hermione wished she hadn't. People had suddenly started staring at her, and a few faces seemed to disapprove of her existence completely.

She spluttered, her face reddening, and she suddenly felt so weak, so hapless and so hopeless, and she started running.

The mantra suddenly sounded in her head.

_You are not home._

_You own nothing, but have so much to lose._

_Watch your back._

She ran, furiously wiping the tears away, uncaring of the cold, or the questioning gazes from the morning crowd. She only stopped when she ran out of breath, and stood for a few moments, her back bent and her hands on her knees. When she looked around, she realized that she'd passed by the bookstore- so she took deep breaths, and wiped her eyes, which had dried quickly in the cold- she licked her chapped lips, then turned around, her back straightened and her shoulders set.

This time, she watched where she stepped, steering clear of any large gathering of people. She reached the bookstore, at last, and she looked up to see the sign she'd been so fond of in her youth, but instead, there was a different sign. It still said Flourish and Blotts, but it was much more old-fashioned, with straight, purple lettering, surrounded by a drawing of an ivy, which ended with a small branch with a bunch of grapes, framing the letters.

She opened the door, fingering the shiny handle, and heard the familiar _tingaling_ of the door trinket. _At least that stayed the same_, she mused.

Walking in, Hermione took a deep breath. The bookstore smelt of black coffee and old books, and it was lined with shelves that extended all the way to the ceiling with multitudes of books that gave off many different vibes; she could almost, _almost_, feel their texture under her fingertips, their words on her lips.

The sound of someone coming out the back distracted her, and the smell of coffee became more prominent as an old man walked out, holding an unnecessarily long, two-armed mug in his hands. He clutched both of them and took a long sip, giving Hermione a questioning look.

"Ah, yes, sorry- Good morning," she said. "I'm here to pick up something for Master Gridlock."

The man hummed in recognition, putting his mug on the desk and nodding to himself. He walked to the back, waving to Hermione to come closer.

She approached, then she stood for a couple of minutes, rolling on her heels and admiring the shop. It hadn't changed much across the years, except for a few, almost unnoticeable details.

The man came forwards again, holding a tall pile of brown packages. He put them all down and started going through them.

Hermione looked on, noting how meticulous all of his labels were, and how everything was arranged alphabetically. She smiled, satisfied. He finally picked one out, wordlessly placing it before Hermione. She thanked him, but he instantly took his mug and started to walk back inside.

"Um, sir- Sir! Is there a payment? Or a receipt?"

The man looked at her peculiarly, then shook his head, waving her off.

"Oh. Oh- did Master Gridlock pay you earlier?"

The man smiled kindly, nodding.

Hermione muttered a quick _thanks, goodbye_ then took the package. It was exceptionally heavy, for such an averagely-sized package, but it wasn't too heavy so that she couldn't walk with it. She pushed the door open with her back, making some brief eye contact with the book clerk, who had gone back to sipping his coffee, an amused look on his face. Hermione grimaced, her face flushing, before she steeled herself and gave the door a final push.

Once she stepped outside, again, the _ting_ of the door ornament a faded, accompanying sound, she felt the cold envelop her again in its ruthless embrace. Hermione breathed out of her mouth, the hot air forming a puff in front of her face. She huffed one more time to see the cloud as it disintegrated.

She'd spent her entire life fighting for her status as a Muggle-born witch, and she'd never wavered in her defence. So why did she put up such a feeble fight when she was accused of being a squib?

Perhaps it was her failure at acquiring a wand, to this day. Or her exceptionally _horrid_ wandless magic.

She propped up the package one more time, and realized that she really had been taking magic for granted.

* * *

She kicked the door open, and found herself completely unsurprised at the sight she saw.

Isimud stood next to a worktable, his shoulders slumped. Three horns had erupted from his left cheek, and his arms had bright, multi-coloured fur spread vertically downwards. He blinked rapidly and often. Master Gridlock stood to his right, inspecting Isimud's hands and tutting frequently.

"Yes, yes, a much unexpected outcome-"

"Nothing's unexpected around here anymore," mumbled Isimud, scowling.

"-nothing a quick antidote can't fix, of course- I just need a few hours and you'll be back to normal, really, not the first time I've seen this before-"

Hermione smiled, amused, when Isimud emitted an involuntary screeching sound, horrified. "Nothing a bezoar can't fix," she said, raising the package in Master Gridlock's direction. "Should I put these in your office?"

Both Isimud and Master Gridlock looked at her quizzically, before Isimud returned to sulking and Master Gridlock nodded absently, inspecting the ingredients in his cauldron.

Taking careful steps to avoid stepping on any of the jars placed on the floor, Hermione headed for the closed office, using the key placed on the top of the door frame to open it. She shoved the door open with her knee, and placed the package on the floor.

Master Gridlock's office was surprisingly organized in comparison to the store front- he had a large, oak desk, with an ornately framed red chair, and a small bookshelf with a scarce collection of books, all of which looked new. The rest of the room consisted of cleverly concealed cupboards, which according to Master Gridlock, contained his most valuable artefacts and his rarest ingredients from his travels around the world. The cupboards were sealed with a spell she couldn't identify, mostly due to her latent magic, but also because Master Gridlock seemed to whisper or mutter all of his spells.

The only exception to the structured nature of the room was the wall where she had placed the package: stacks upon stacks of what seemed to be old things that Master Gridlock was getting rid of. Next to the door were the replacements; three packages, including the one she'd just placed, of flawlessly wrapped boxes.

She made her way to the bathroom, locking the office behind her. She saw from the corner of her eye as Master Gridlock attempted to shove a bezoar down Isimud's throat, who writhed and attempted to run away.

Her eyes downcast, Hermione turned on the water and washed her hands thoroughly. Her nails were bitten to the quick, and her hands had slowly started returning to their natural state from when they'd been on the run. She remembered seeing her wrinkled, grey hands, with dirt and mud and blood under her nails, and cringed. She took extra care with scrubbing them, attempting to wash the image away from her mind's eyes.

She heard someone walk in before she saw them. She kept her head down.

"Is it true that you're a squib?"

Hermione's head snapped up in alarm. "What?!"

Isimud shrugged. One of his horns had disappeared, and the other two were slowly retracting. His feathers were falling off and vanishing before they reached the floor.

"We guessed as much. Never heard your name, never seen your wand, never saw you use magic. You can't even open boxes." He walked in, leaning on the tiled walls. "And I saw the Rosier Ladies bashing at you in the street. They aren't very nice people."

She recalled the child who had thrown snow at her, and briefly wondered if it could have been Isimud.

"Are you okay?"

Realizing she'd been quiet for a few moments, Hermione nodded, flapping her hands in the air to rid of excess water. "I'm fine."

"Okay."

They stood in silence for a while. When Hermione accidentally caught sight of herself in the mirror, she snapped her head away, and caught Isimud's eye.

"How did you know a bezoar would work?" asked Isimud, his eyes curious, but not in that malicious, wicked way she would often see. He looked genuinely interested, and she was horrendously reminded of herself as a child.

"I- I guessed," she lied. When Isimud's questioning look did not waver, she continued, "I read some- I read a book, I mean, and it said bezoars work with most things."

Isimud nodded, his cheek now free of its horns. Only his left hand had feathers on it, which he itched at idly. "Sorry, it's just that- I never see any girls do the stuff you do. I thought all girls just wear dresses and knit and practice cleaning spells and glamour charms- but you always wear the same weird trousers and you can't do magic and your hands tremble too much for you to knit at all." He paused. "And your hair is awful."

Hermione's eyebrows knitted, and she peered down at her damp hands. Isimud was correct. They had a very slight, but very noticeable tremor to them.

Isimud misunderstood her silence, and raised his hand upwards. "I like it, though. It's not like those weird things girls do nowadays with the braids and the buns that make them look bald. It suits you."

He instantly turned around and exited the bathroom, but instead of looking embarrassed like a child who'd just confided his biggest secret, he looked as if he had simply spoken a passing thought, and had fulfilled his desired duty.

Sighing, Hermione wiped her slightly damp hands using a napkin, and threw it in the trash can.

She walked out to the store front, where Isimud was cleaning up the remains of the latest failure at inventing a potion, as Master Gridlock stood behind his counter, writing down the losses in his ledger.

"What were you trying to invent, Master Gridlock?" she asked, peering at the list he'd written down. Only one of the ingredients was fairly expensive, and the rest were commonly found in nearby locations.

He looked up, peering at her, before placing his quill down and giving her his full attention, for the first time. "Truffled Eagle-Parrots in the tropics in Peru have a very unique feature, see- they can increase the efficiency of one sense by… _dulling_ out the other senses. Of course, a very valuable skill, yes, one I think many workers would appreciate- mothers too, really, imagine piping down the sounds of crying children, a blessing, I'm sure-"

Hermione knew about the rare species, having read about them in her third year, but pretended not to, instead nodding and acting as if the information was new.

"Their feathers are very hard to come by," said Master Gridlock, his tone oddly serious, and somehow melancholic, "so I tried to recreate it with other ingredients. Using other feathers of similar species did not work, as you can see- what a shame, really."

She opened her mouth, about to recommend using a different cauldron and a method more similar to concocting other sense-enhancing potions, but held her tongue.

"Should I start from the back?" she asked, pointing at the shelves behind her.

"Yes!" Master Gridlock closed his ledger, apparently excited. "I _admired_ how you did it all in alphabetical order, I'm _very_ impressed, Hermione- now, the store on the outside is a bit different- I try to put the more attractively coloured things towards the middle shelves, and the rest around the top and bottom, and the more expensive things are usually more to the back of the store, but all the potions are always stored next to me, of course, so I can regulate their storage temperature-"

He guided her to the back, signalling at certain jars and warning her from others, before patting her back and asking if she needed anything. When she shook her head and muttered _thank you_, he nodded at her and turned on his heel, quickly walking back to his counter.

She looked around, and her heart suddenly stopped.

It had been four days ago when Tom Riddle stood in this spot, crystallized pineapples in hand, his dark eyes scrutinizing every ingredient on this shelf- Hermione caught sight of the Lesser Blue Dragonfly Thoraxes stored in a large jar in the middle, the thoraxes inside stored messily, as if they were thrown in from a distance. They were a bright, vibrant indigo, with very faint snow-white wave-like marks on the edges. She imagined as his long fingers reached inside, as he looked down at each single ingredient to make sure of its quality, as his long legs and his perfectly polished shoes made contact with the ground every time he moved…

The image of his face haunted her, so alluring, yet so dangerous, so _horrifying_, and her hands started to tremble again, more fiercely, as her traitorous mind started conjuring imaged of him, of the older Him, as he stood over her dead body, as he stood over Harry's and Ron's dead bodies, as he-

She shut her eyes and squeezed, and pushed her fear and panic away, leaving behind a strange emptied feeling..

Hermione ignored it, moving on to arrange the middle shelf's contents. She passed over the Lesser Blue Thoraxes and avoided touching them until she was finished.

* * *

"And that's the story of how an eight year old child bested me in a game of cards and stole my most expensive undergarments."

A loud laughter burst from around her, and Hermione couldn't help but smile. She'd been sitting at the bar in the Three Broomsticks, a butterbeer in hand, when Madam Rae had introduced her to a very charismatic man who went by the nickname Stork. Soon after, many people had gathered around him, as he'd started recounting exciting tales of his travels in his roguish Irish accent.

"And you have _no_ idea what the visit to the authorities was like," continued the man, raising his firewhiskey in the air. Though he'd already had a few drinks, he still seemed very aware, unlike most of the people surrounding him. "'But oh, Auror-man, sir, what do you _mean_ you can't possibly send out a search party for my golden-stitched dragon hide underpants?!'"

The crowd broke out into a gaudy laughter, and one man beside her, who was middle-aged and balding, hiccupped and promptly fell off his chair, clutching his stomach and unable to breathe in his mirth.

Hermione regarded at the man, and before she could step out to help him, a long, gloved hand reached downwards, and a tall, flowing mane of shining black hair blocked her view. When she moved, she saw that the man was being helped up by a very familiar face.

The dark woman helped the man straighten up, smiling at him, kindly. She wore a long sleeved cerulean dress, which showed off her lovely collar bones and her shoulders, then draped downwards, hugging her body, and ended just above her knees. It was a very risqué dress with a very revealing neck-line that hugged the woman's chest and pushed it upwards, but she wore it comfortably, confidently, and very elegantly. The dress seemed to belong to the woman, _on_ the woman, and for a second, Hermione envied her. Long, lacy gloves stretched from her fingers to her elbows, and a pair of strappy high-heels complimented her dress. Hermione instantly recognized that the heel was much taller than what fashion in this time dictated. She felt like a degenerate in the same jumper and trousers she'd been wearing since she came.

The crowd suddenly quieted down, as if in momentary awe, before settling again in hasty, distracted conversations. Stork raised his glass and nodded at the woman, who had helped the middle-aged man back into his seat.

"Welcome, Shei," said Stork, openly staring at her. It was not the disrespectful, demeaning stare that Hermione saw from other people in the vicinity, but a cheeky, humorous stare that spoke about an old, revered friendship.

"Stork," said the woman, Shei, bowing her head. She pulled up the seat to Hermione's, away from Stork and his crowd, and signalled to Madam Rae.

"Evening, Rae," she said, tapping her gloved fingers on the counter.

Madam Rae looked up, beaming. "Shei! Lovely seeing you." Without asking, Madam Rae pulled out a tall glass and poured a transparent, pink-tinged liquid from a bottle Hermione had never seen before. She slid it over to Shei and returned to wiping butterbeer mugs. "How's everything?"

Hermione could barely hear over the raucous laughs from the people beside her. Shei straightened her shoulders, and Hermione noticed the woman's dress dipped in the back. "Last night was a bit dreadful. He broke into tears and started talking about his deceased wife." Madam Rae rolled her eyes, as if this was a familiar scenario. "He was better in the morning, though. Gave me a very decent tip."

Chuckling, Madam Rae quickly served an old woman before looking at Hermione. "Have you met each other?" she asked, making another attempt at forcing Hermione to socialize. "This is Shei. Shei, this is Hermione-"

"Miss Hermione Grimshaw, yes, we met just this morning." Shei extended her hand, and Hermione shook it, the texture of the glove soft against her hand. She stopped herself from asking how the woman knew her name, assuming that Madam Rae must have told her.

Madam Rae quirked an eyebrow, smirking. "Very well then, I'll leave you to it."

They sat in silence for a few moments, each of them sipping on their drink.

"Everyone says you are a squib," said Shei, placing her drink on the table.

Hermione spluttered, spitting out some of her butterbeer. How had this spread so fast? Had it really only been a few hours since it happened? She hated it. She hated how Shei seemed to know more than she did. She didn't reply for a minute, and looked everywhere but at her.

"Everyone says a lot of things," she replied, finally. Shei chuckled, crossing her legs.

"You are a clever one," Shei whispered, grinning. She looked around the Three Broomsticks, nodding to someone, as if confirming something. Hermione couldn't tell who she was nodding at.

Hermione sighed, defeated. If everyone had declared her a squib within a few hours, what else could they do? She thought staying out of the sight of important figures in the future might keep her safe, but she had severely underestimated the power of the public. Before she could turn to Shei and try to kick start another awkward conversation, the woman stood suddenly, towering above Hermione, and waved to Madam Rae goodbye.

"Duty calls, Cherie," she said, petting Hermione's hand. "Do not let them get you down. Magic is not really that special, anyway."

Hermione didn't reply, out of words. Not that special? _I'd been the one taking it for granted, either way_, she mused. The woman was just trying to lift her spirits.

After paying Madam Rae, and privately thanking Stork by giving him a discrete nod and smile, Hermione made quick work of reaching her room. There was only one floor above the ground floor, which had all of the rooms. She'd confirmed what Shei had said in the morning by asking Madam Rae, who had seemed very embarrassed about the whole situation and had given her very short, curt answers, with a flushed face and discomfited smiles.

She opened her room, and immediately reached for the third drawer of her bedside cover, bringing out the pile of napkins and unwrapping the time turner. She crossed her legs, just as she had this morning, and placed the time turner on her knee. She stared at it, curious and perplexed, attempting to recognize its mechanisms. Nothing about it seemed similar to any of the time turners she'd seen in the Department of Mysteries, or the ones she'd read about in her third year.

And she'd read about time turners _a lot_ in her third year.

She gulped the dread lodged in her throat, and gathered her strength, raising her wand arm.

"_Wingardium Leviosa._"

Nothing.

A strange spluttering sob noise tore itself from her throat, its sound raw and rough.

If she was going to pose as a squib, then- let it be. She _will_ endure. It wasn't the first time she'd had to sleep with the filthy, flea-ridden dogs for survival.

It wasn't- but this time she would make it her last.

* * *

**A/N:** _Bit_ of a filler! I introduced some characters who turn out to be quite important later on, so I'm quite sorry for the lack of Tom! I'm having fun trying to figure out Hermione's development- she's tired and exhausted and she doesn't want to fight another day in her life, but at the same time she can't give up on whatever it is she's doing- which is a major issue, since she _doesn't_ know what she's doing or what she wants to achieve.

Anyway, tell me what you think! I'd love that. I'd also love for someone to bonk me on the head and tell me _to calm the bloody fuck down_. Thanks.


	5. Chapter Four: Obsolete

**A/N**: Long chapter today! No, like, _super_ long. Enjoy!

* * *

"I still remember what he looks like."

"Who?"

Ginny looked away from Hermione, a strange, faraway look on her face. She had a small, wistful smile, as if she was recalling something from long ago.

"Riddle. Tom Riddle."

Hermione recoiled.

They were sitting on Ginny's bed in the Gryffindor tower. Ginny's fifth year classmates were nowhere to be found- it was dinner time, but both of them had chosen to stay in.

"Y-you do?!"

Ginny looked up, the previous look on her face instantly gone, replaced with a hard expression. "Look, I was eleven. You can't bloody blame me for being a little girl-"

"I'm not," Hermione said hastily. "I'm just… I felt like it came out of nowhere." She placed her hand on Ginny's cold arm. "Are you alright?"

"Yeah," she said, inspecting her thumb. "Yes. I am."

They sat in silence for a few minutes, only the sound of their quiet breathing around them.

"He was so handsome," said Ginny, her eyes blank. "And always kind. He always listened to me. It was odd, and I didn't understand, but I ignored it. He was the first person to listen to my ramblings- to really listen- since Bill and Charlie left for work and Ron got too involved with Harry's problems and the twins became too distracted with their… stuff."

Hermione smiled, reminded of their exit at the near-end of their last academic year. When Ginny cleared her croaky throat, Hermione was brought back to the unpleasant nature of their discussion.

"I never doubted him for a second." She straightened her back, avoiding Hermione's eyes. "I was wrong."

Nodding, Hermione rubbed Ginny's back. "You were eleven- you said it yourself. It's not your fault. But you were strong, Ginny, and not anyone can survive that kind of experience."

Ginny shrugged, looking very pale. "Was it worth it? Ruining my first year at Hogwarts?" She turned around, suddenly, facing Hermione. "Was it _fucking_ worth it to suck my _bloody_ soul out? Is being immortal worth it all?!"

Her eyes were wide, and she was panting heavily, and Hermione could see her anger, her hate, and her utter _fury_ at the man who seemed to actively seek ruining their lives. She pulled Ginny into a hug, and even when she didn't respond at all, she held her tight. After a while, her school vest had started to dampen, and Hermione could hear Ginny's muffled sobs.

"I don't know," she replied, finally. "I don't know."

* * *

She opened her eyes.

Her left eye was covered with her hair, and her right was blurry.

She turned around and slept on her back, rubbing at her face until her sight was clear.

The images of this dream did not fade away like other dreams, and seemed to stick almost stubbornly in her head. Her problem was- they were so _vivid._ She could almost count the freckles on Ginny's face.

Sniffling, Hermione raised her head from her lumpy pillow, and was surprised when she saw it was damp. Had she been crying in her sleep? Flipping the pillow over, she stood up. Once again, she'd woken up at dawn, even though she had slept late last night, choosing to stay up and stare outside her window.

The effects of the muggle war, or the Second World War, were barely showing in the magical community. With the exception of less people roaming the streets at once, everything went on seamlessly. Hermione tried to remember who the current Minister of Magic is, but she couldn't. Did he or she intentionally shield the community from the war, or were they inherently separate?

Either way, she'd had enough of wars by now.

She picked up the towels she'd taken yesterday and headed for the joint bathroom in the hallway.

* * *

"_ISIMUUUUUUUUUUUUUD!_"

Hermione shrieked in surprise, almost dropping the potion containers in her hands.

Master Gridlock ran out from his office, scanning the store. "Isimud! Where _are_ you?! ISI_MUUU_-"

He stopped, suddenly, noticing Hermione. With one last look around, he approached her, a nervous smile on his face.

"Hermione, dear, thank God, have you seen Isimud?"

She simply shook her head, a little frightened by Master Gridlock's demeanour.

"O-Oh. That's no good."

Silence.

"Is there anything I could do for you, Master Gridlock? Because otherwise, I really need to pu-"

"Yes, there is!" He cried, as if he was waiting for_ever_ for her to say it. He snatched the containers from her hands and slammed them on the nearest worktable, almost tipping them over. "The Blacks just sent for an order and they're sending their little…" he waved his hand around, an odd expression on his face, "…thing. I don't like it. You'll handle it."

"I-what?" Master Gridlock took a swift turn and started to walk back to his office when she called on him. "Master Gri- their little _what_?"

He stood for a second, but before he opened his mouth, sudden understanding dawned on Hermione. "You mean their house-elf?" she asked, quirking an eyebrow.

"Yes!" He cried excitedly, in a way showing that he wasn't excited at all. "_That_. Deal with it, dear- I'll just… slip in to my office…"

He quickly ran back, and Hermione stood, empty handed, and very uncharacteristically confused.

She burst into laughter.

She really couldn't help it, but the look on Master Gridlock's face had been _comical_, horribly so, so she slapped her knees then leaned on the worktable, trying to catch her breath.

Wiping her eyes, Hermione started to turn around to find the potion containers, and screamed.

An empty jar tipped over and started to roll away when she tripped backwards in startled horror. In front of her, at the height of barely-there three feet, stood an ugly, foul-looking, bat-eared, snout-nosed house-elf. His eyes were wrinkled and narrow, and when they momentarily widened at Hermione, they appeared to be heavily bloodshot.

"I- Wha-"

The elf cleared its throat, and spoke in its croaky voice: "Kreacher has come to receive Mistress Black's order."

Hermione did not reply, still stunned by the house-elf's sudden appeara-

Wait.

_Wait._

"K-Kreacher?"

He seemed to be restraining rolling his eyes. "_Kreacher_ has come to _receive_-"

"I heard you," she said, not harshly. She stood up, eyeing the house-elf. "You're the Blacks' elf?"

She knew he was, and he'd just confirmed it, but asked anyway. He grumbled a quiet _Yes, I am_ and looked away. _How _old_ is this elf_?, she wondered. He didn't look a day younger than when she'd last seen him leading the group of house-elves and shouting.

"Wait for a second, please, Kreacher," she said, attempting to smile. He seemed impatient glancing at her in disdain, before looking away, muttering under his breath. Hermione walked to Master Gridlock's office, knocked, and stuck her head through the open slit of the door.

"Kreacher is here. Where's the Black's orde-"

"It's here?!" shouted Master Gridlock nervously, and unnecessarily loudly. "Ah- Um… It's not here, outside, I think, under the counter- should be labelled-"

Hermione nodded, and promptly exited, ignoring the rest of Master Gridlock's nervous muttering. She strode to the counter and rifled in its drawers, and upon finding a slim, navy box, she took it and walked towards the house-elf.

"Here you go, Kreacher," she said, handing him the box. She smiled once more.

Kreacher looked at the box for a long moment. It was labelled _Black_ in messy, red handwriting, and stamped with the words _Paid in Advance_. He looked up at her, one last time, before suddenly distorting and shrinking- and disappeared.

The smile suddenly fell off her face. She sighed. The faint creak of the front door sounded as a customer walked in. She plastered the smile on her face again and stood tall, pretending that the house-elf that had openly called and considered her a mudblood for three years hadn't nearly broken her composure.

* * *

Massaging her head, Hermione plopped down on a wooden stool in front of the bar of the Three Broomsticks. She looked behind her. A few quiet students had started trailing in, but otherwise, she still had a few rare, precious minutes of quiet.

"Madam Rae?" she called. She could hear her talking to one of the waitresses inside. She sounded frantic.

A few moments after, Madam Rae came out, smiling at Hermione. "Hi, dear, sorry! It's Hogsmeade weekend today and it tend to get much more crowded, and we had a little mishap in the kitchen-"

"It's fine," interrupted Hermione. She wasn't really feeling up to conversation. "Do you need any help?"

"No, we're good. The usual?"

Hermione nodded.

She vaguely sensed Madam Rae go back inside, and started tapping a strange, methodical tune on the table when it hit her.

_The usual?_

It had been… what- a week, since her arrival? Since when was '_the usual'_ based on one week's worth of orders? Had she ordered _that_ many butterbeers?

Before she could elaborate more on the idea, the door slammed open, and a sudden crowd of extremely loud, uniform wearing _hooligans_ crowded in. The waitress whom Hermione had previously spoken to concerning the napkin issue squawked indignantly and dropped her tray, and Hermione's severely amused smirk came unintentionally, causing the waitress to scoff extremely loud and run behind the kitchen, nursing both her bruised pride and her possibly much more heavily bruised bum.

_Lots of bruised bums where I came from,_ thought Hermione, not without a hint of unease.

She'd been trying to stay… well, _positive_ about her rather unfortunate circumstance- or circumstances, really, and for the most part, she'd fallen flat on her face. Because, really, she missed her own time, she bloody _missed _it, and she missed Harry and Ron and her parents- who, for a moment, caused her to still.

And panic.

She'd- she'd erased their memories, and no one else remembered she'd done it and oh god, _oh god_, they didn't even know the war was over, and that their daughter wasn't home anymore, no, but so far away that even the notion itself was _fucking_ absurd-

There was a distinct _slam_ from behind the counter, audible over the students' ramblings, and Hermione was startled. She heard the whining of a high-pitched, nasal voice, followed by another _slam _that was, thankfully, a _little_ less loud. Then, Madam Rae's confident, airy voice made an appearance.

"_Yes, _Melissa, you _will_ make that order- I don't bloody care about your fucking diploma, you applied for a job as a waitress and you _will_ wait on people whether you like it or not. Now go pour a bloody butterbeer, there's a customer waiting outside- _yes_, the girl with the really bad hair that you don't like." Silence. More small, nasal whining. "For _FUCK'S SAKE, MELISSA,_ get over yourself- I don't _care_ about how much your arse hurts- and DO YOUR JOB! It's not her fault you're a prissy _bitch_ with daddy issues!"

Hermione's eyes were as wide by the time the pea-brained, perpetually complaining waitress- now named Melissa- came out. She marched in front of Hermione, glaring daggers at her, before roughly grabbing a glass mug and filling it with butterbeer. Glancing upwards, barely restraining a self-satisfied smirk, Hermione caught sight of Melissa's nametag.

Melissa Macmillan_. Ah. Explains a few things…_

Melissa slammed the butterbeer in front of Hermione, who didn't flinch in all her amusement. She reached out and took a sip, maintaining eye contact with Melissa. "Thanks," she said, flaunting her new found white moustache.

With an angry _HRMPHHHHH_, Melissa stormed away, picking up a random tray and notebook, and headed to the slowly crowding tables in the back. Hermione spent the next thirty minutes slowly drinking her butterbeer, lost in thought. At some point, she briefly made eye contact with the previously drunken student she'd met a week ago, who instantly cowered in embarrassment and ran back outside. She almost choked on her butterbeer in her glee.

She'd found it almost surprising how quickly she'd adjusted- but then again, she probably was the best suited for travels among Harry and Ron. They'd both had severe ups and downs when they were on the run- _especially_ Ron- but she'd always thought she'd fared the best. Hadn't she? How would her friends be doing now- how _are _they doing now? What if she never goes back and they spend their lifetime looking for her? What… what if when she _does_ come back its seconds after she'd initially gone that they don't even notice her presence?

Deeply concentrated, Hermione completely missed it when Madam Rae waved her hand in front of her- then her arms, frantically and loudly, followed by a very severe shoulder shake on Hermione that nearly caused her person to fall out of her stool.

"_What_-?!"

"Oh god, Hermione, I'd thought you'd had a bloody concussion or something- I've been calling your name for ages. You alright?"

Hermione wordlessly nodded. Madam Rae's extremely blonde mane was too bright for her mentality, at the moment.

"How about you… dress up a little bit? Do your hair, maybe a bit of makeup? There's someone I want to introduce you to," said Madam Rae. She grinned cheekily, and upon noticing, Hermione started slowly and unconsciously backing up- she didn't like where this was going.

"I- uh- I'm really busy tonight, actually, I'm supposed to write letters to someone-" she stepped out of her chair- "to everyone, actually, my _entire_ family- they're _so_ worried, see, it's the first time I've travelled alone-"

"Come on, Hermione, I promise it'll be fine-" Madam Rae tried to grab Hermione's arm, but she flinched so hard that Madam Rae almost fell over the counter. "_Hermione!_ I'm just trying to help out!"

"I'm _fine_!" She shouted, suddenly. Customers around the bar turned to look at her, imploring. "I'm- look, I appreciate you trying to integrate me socially, but I'm leaving soon anyway and it doesn't matter."

"If you are leaving soon, anyway, then what is there to lose?"

The sensual drawl sounded from behind her, and Hermione sighed. She was surrounded.

"Look, Madam Rei, M-Miss Shei, I _don't want to_-"

Before she could continue, the two women suddenly broke out into laughter. "Miss Shei?" asked Madam Rae, incredulous. "I haven't heard someone say that in a while."

Nodding, her red lips spread, Shei chuckled. "Same. Just Shei is fine, darling."

Her gloved hand reached out and patted at Hermione's untamed hair, and she nearly _growled_ at how they made her feel like a child.

"Just sod off," she said, but her voice was losing conviction- she didn't really have anywhere to escape. Madam Rae would sooner break down the room to her door and drag her downstairs by her hair.

"Come, Hermione," started Shei, the laughter still in her voice. "I will help you wear something nice. Maybe help you with your hair-"

"I _like_ my hair," grumbled Hermione, teeth gritted.

Shei did not reply as she walked up the stairs, so Hermione followed, making sure to stomp her feet as hard as possible.

Once they were upstairs and out of site, Shei abruptly faced Hermione- and, well, she was _livid_.

"Grow up," she snapped, her eyes hard and frightening, like a lightning storm on a dark, malevolent night- "Madam Rae is being very kind to you, and you are acting like a little child. I do not care about your little people complex. Follow me- and _be quiet about it_."

Gulping, Hermione stood still for a few seconds, shocked. When Shei turned on her heel, her deep black hair fanning around her, Hermione scowled.

"What? I never asked for any of this!" She hurried to catch up with Shei's speedy pace. "You're the ones who just… _decided_ to shove me into- into your business and-"

Shei unlocked the door to her room and entered, disappearing from Hermione's sight.

Hermione covered her face with her cold hands.

She'd messed up, hadn't she?

Hermione sighed, bowing her head. She'd gotten too integrated into the community- she was _expected_ to have friends, she was _expected_ to socialize and meet people and she was _expected_ to be a social fucking butterfly and-

_Well_. Bugger it all, right?

Swiping her jumper- the same deep rose wool she'd been wearing, now a pale pink from being worn out- Hermione steeled herself. She might as well get this over and done with.

Someone called her name, and Hermione realized that she must have been standing outside for too long, so she walked, her footsteps hurried and her face passive- but she wasn't. She wasn't passive.

She was troubled.

Pushing the door open, Hermione plastered a smile on her face- Shei's room was big. Very big. She knew that she needed her wand to be able to sense magical residue or a signature of a certain spell- but it was obvious that this room had a very complex extension charm, not like the ones in the small bathrooms which caused the walls to look tilted and the roof uneven. No. This was a _good_ extension charm, and Hermione wondered if Madam Rae's _inconspicuous_ _group_ had done this as well.

Shei was standing towards the back, by a large closet with four doors and at least a dozen drawers. Her hand was on her chin, thoughtfully. She had no gloves on.

"I- Hermione, I really do not know what you could wear. You are much shorter than I am and your bust is much smaller and I…" she pushed at a few items inside her closet and frowned- "…am afraid you might not share my taste in dresses-"

"I-yeah…" she responded, feeling a little less than vulnerable at Shei's thorough nit-picking. "I really don't want to wear anything, my clothes are fine-"

"No, they are not."

Her eyebrows shot up. "I-okay…"

"Look," Shei began, sighing. "I guess you do not like dressing up. Fine. Just… Let me fix your hair. And maybe give you another jumper.

"I don't need-"

"I am not being charitable, Hermione, I am just giving it to you for the night. Work with me, please."

"I… alright." She walked inside, inspecting the room. "I'm just-"

She glanced herself in the mirror, and turned away so fast her head hurt. Shei didn't comment. Instead, she walked towards her- more like _swayed_ towards her, and pushed her to sit on the bed.

"Alright. Let me see."

The next few minutes passed in a blur- where Shei offered countless garments Hermione deemed to be too flashy or too extravagant- a concept Shei seemed not to agree on, but the woman was unstoppable. In the end, they both agreed on a rich black sweater which had a feeble emerald shine in the light- its collar slightly open, wherein Shei admired Hermione's long neck, deeming that she was not to wear a high-necked jumper again in her life- and the same pair of jeans, which Shei quickly charmed to look slightly less shabby- and she pulled her up, Hermione trailing behind Shei as they moved towards the back of the room.

She was sat down on a chair, and Shei began touching Hermione's hair- reluctantly at first, the same approach as if one were to approach a rat's nest- before deeming the situation "_not that bad at all_" and contemplating its condition out loud. Hermione ignored her, instead choosing to feel the material of the sweater with the tips of her fingers- she ran them up and down, the little microscopic hairs on the sweater tickling her as they swiped themselves across her skin-

When she felt a rough tug on her hair, she shouted, and pulled herself away from Shei's grip-

And she saw it.

No- _no_, she saw _her_. Herself.

It was odd, seeing herself after a week of avoiding reflective surfaces at any cost- but her mirror self looked different. Not any prettier, no, she'd refused to have any makeup on her face at all- but her cheeks were fuller, and her hair didn't look as _dead_, and her lips had regained some colour. Her skin was still, however, still yellow and pale, and her eyes.

Her eyes were blank.

Her eyes were blank, but they were _troubled_, yes, because that's what she felt- and most of all, she felt aimless. _Aimless_. And it killed her to say it, because she'd never been aimless before. No. She'd always had an aim, a purpose, and even if she didn't, she'd bloody well _make_ one.

Absentmindedly, she batted away Shei's hands- her hair wasn't different, not at _all_, except for a couple less tangles or knots, really. Shei frowned, but held up her hands in surrender.

"I- thanks, Shei… You really didn't have to-"

"I did not. But I did. It was no problem- I wish you would have let me put some make up on you or play with your hair… It is alright. You look good."

The thought came unprecedented and unintended- but Shei, in that moment, reminded her of Ginny.

"Who am I going to meet anyway that's got you and Madam Rae going insane?"

Shei grinned. "You will see."

They walked outside and downstairs, Hermione feeling odd and like she didn't belong in the sweater, because it was too revealing and he hadn't worn something even vaguely similar to this since the last family dinner she'd attended- which was, admittedly, a long time ago. Shei, however, wore a little purple dress, strapless, illuminating her slender shoulders and her thin arms, and a pair of long, lacy gloves that covered her whitened, patchy skin. Her hair was straight, if a little wavy, and Hermione wondered about how different it looked from Shei's natural, tightly curled hair.

Madam Rae ran up to them, beaming. "Oh, god, Shei, you're a miracle worker! I'd hoped you'd do something with the hair but…" then, to Hermione, "-you wouldn't let her, would you?"

"No."

Madam Rae laughed, throwing a friendly arm around Shei's waist. "No problem. Let's go, then."

Shei excused herself, moving to sit at the bar, as Hermione trailed behind Madam Rae. They walked more towards the back, a part Hermione hadn't ventured before, and Madam Rae had a grin on her face- one Hermione would describe as a shit-eating grin, and she didn't like it.

She didn't like it at all.

The tables were full- some with six people sitting where there should be four, some with sixteen instead of six- most patrons were students, but some weren't. It was loud, and it was busy, and Hermione saw a waitress expertly weave through the masses with half a dozen mugs of butterbeer before stomping towards the bar, her hair bouncing around her round head. Hermione's curious eyes followed her, and she saw Shei looking at them and waving, a very distinct smirk on her face- and Madam Rae waved back, and it was like they were scheming and _plotting_ and it _didn't_ feel _right_-

And then-

She saw him.

Him, no, _Him_, and he was sitting with other students, smack dab in the middle, quiet and restrained but confident and arrogant and she heard a girl simper and say _oh, Tom, you're so brilliant_ and a guy laugh as if he was trying to impress and _He_ just sat there looking like he was above it all, above _everything_ and- Hermione tried to steer away, to walk to a different direction and she was suddenly_ excited_, _anxious_ to meet the people Madam Rae wanted to introduce her to- but Madam Rae's grip on Hermione's shoulder just tightened as she eagerly walked in the same direction, a bounce in her step and a smile in her face.

"Madam Rae, who was it that you wanted me to meet again?" she questioned, her heart thudding louder than ever.

"Why, you've already met him before, Hermione," replied Madam Rae, cheery and genial and Hermione wanted to _punch _it off her face- but she kept walking.

"I-I did? Who is it?" she probed, and she suddenly felt infinitely worse, and she just wanted to climb upstairs and crawl into her bed, because they stopped, and a few faces turned to inspect them, some lingering on Madam Rae's smiling, bright face, greeting her, and some on _her_ face, curious and inquisitive, and then-

_He_ looked at her, and lingered for a few seconds before he recognized her.

He tilted his head, and the students surrounding the table scurried off, whispering amongst themselves.

"So, hi, Tom, this is Hermione, she's new around these areas and I thought I'd introduce you-"

Hermione couldn't pay attention, because he was looking at her, Tom _Riddle_ was looking at her and replying to Madam Rae but she couldn't hear anything and her ears were ringing and _bugger fucking hell_-

"Go ahead, sit down, please."

Her ears popped. She looked up, and Madam Rae was smiling at her and nodding at the table's direction and poking her ribs- Shei was smiling as well, a successful smile- because to them, to _them_ it was all just a game- introduce the new girl to the handsome guy and hook them up and celebrate because _we introduced them, aren't they just the cutest_? She was just entertainment- but it isn't, it really isn't because she _wasn't_ supposed to be the _new_ _girl_ and this _wasn't_ the _handsome_ _guy_- this was _Tom_ _Riddle_ and he had _killed_.

He had killed her friends and their friends and everyone she knew.

"Thank you."

There were five people on the table, and Madam Rae gave her a little push, moving to go back and discuss her success with Shei. Hermione sat down.

Silence.

The table wasn't stocked with butterbeer as she'd expected- but it was a _good_ table, with a candle and a small flower vase and wine glasses- deep red, and it _looked_ expensive.

Riddle's slender hand reached out for his wine glass- still relatively full, which he sloshed around, his slim fingers wrapping around the glass and fitting perfectly, and once again, Hermione felt as if the hand was pointed accusingly. At her.

"Hermione Grimshaw, yes?"

She nodded.

"I'm Tom Riddle, as you previously know," he spoke, his voice a deep, soothing baritone, "this is Alphard Black, Evan Rosier, Abraxas Malfoy and Orion Black."

The sudden influx of names shocked her- and she struggled to associate each face with them.

"So, Grimshaw, huh? Where are you from? I haven't heard your name before."

Alphard Black, who was sitting next to her, smiled. Riddle, who was watching closely, gave him a weird look: Alphard reared, spluttering.

"I- It's just that- it's a pretty small town, everyone always knows everyone else-"

"It's alright," she interrupted. "I'm not from around here. My family's lived in America for the past few generations. My-" she swallowed. "-my father's American."

"Ah," said Tom, taking a sip from his wine. "Welcome to Britain, Miss Grimshaw."

"Th-thank you."

Leaning forwards, the boy next to Riddle pointed at Hermione inquiringly. His platinum white hair was just as _short_- just as short and bright as _Draco's_- "So, what's your… _status_, then?"

Hermione's eyebrows shot up at the Malfoy's question, and her mouth fell open, muddled. "I- what do you mea-"

Something touched her thigh, then full on _pushed_ her- and she realized it was another person, another guy, whose features looked so horribly familiar and _awful_- and he signalled for her to scoot over, settling in beside her, _trapping _her-

"He means are you a _pure_blood, dearest," said a rough, ragged voice, and Hermione looked up to see an almost _feral_, feasting grin, and the way he put an emphasis on _pure_ seemed to be like a warning, and Hermione knew she had one chance.

She had _one_ bloody chance to make it out of this alive.

Riddle gave the boy the same look- but it didn't seem real, as if it was only their as a tradition, of sorts, because the question seemed validated. They all looked at her, waiting. Riddle's eyes inspected her face, as one would inspect a newfound anomaly- interested, but not _really_.

She coughed.

"The Grimshaws are one of the most well-known Wizarding families in the Americas," she said- which was a feat, because as far as she knew Grimshaw was the name of a town in Canada- she feigned being offended at the question. "Our line has been pure for a long time."

The boy's smile faltered, as if the enormity of the answer shocked him, and instantly held out his hand. "Uh- I'm Dolohov."

Well- fuck.

Because all she could remember was when she was in the Department of Mysteries and how she'd silenced him- but it was still not the right thing- because he'd cast that spell- that _spell_ that shone a hypnotizing, _traumatizing_ purple- and she still had the scar.

She had so many scars, and she _despised_ them.

She shook his hand. "Hermione Grimshaw."

The air seemed to be a lot less tense- and she wondered. Had she been a pureblood in her time, would things have settled down this much faster?

She almost screamed. She should not be thinking that way.

"Black," began Riddle, "Bring another glass for our guest."

Her eyebrows furrowed, because there were two blacks- but Orion, who was sitting at the edge, instantly stood up- he hadn't said a word so far, but nodded politely, _submissively,_ to Riddle, and walked away.

"So, Grimshaw," started a new voice- Rosier, who had dirty blond hair and dark, dull eyes, "how do you like Britain so far?" He grinned. "We're much better-looking than your Americans, are we not?"

She couldn't help it- her eyes glanced momentarily at Tom Riddle, so quickly that the others didn't notice- but Riddle did. His eyebrows quirked.

"Oh. Um. I don't know," she said, but everyone was still looking at her, so she leaned backwards, forcing her muscles to relax. They wouldn't. "I'll definitely miss their charming accents, however."

Rosier blinked, as if he hadn't expected her to answer, but then he threw his head back, roaring in laughter- the others laughed too, and even Orion, who'd just approached the table with a wine glass and a new bottle in hand, made a small chuckling noise.

Riddle just smiled. It looked polite- it looked _forced_.

"Well then, Miss Grimshaw," said Rosier, his cheeks pink, "I'm sure we can make up for that."

Malfoy slapped Rosier's back, guffawing, his short hair shining an orange by the candle when he leaned forward enough to touch his head to the table.

Orion put the glass on the table, and the bottle next to Riddle's glass. And then-

And then, Hermione almost choked.

Because Riddle had reached for her glass, the open wine bottle in his hand, and he started _pouring_ it for her- which was something she assumed was extremely uncommon, judging by the stares of the Blacks and Rosier and Malfoy- Dolohov just grinned, that _same fucking _grin, like he'd already figured it all out.

Everything suddenly piped out- and she couldn't hear anything except her heartbeat in her ears and she could _feel_ it furiously and viciously pump in her neck and her thighs and her ankles- and she could hear the wine as it made contact with the glass, as the bottle made quiet, strange gurgling noises as the air gradually replaced the liquid inside- and Riddle's pale porcelain skin contrasted with the dark green of the bottle, just as it contrasted with his sleet black hair, and his obsidian, spellbinding eyes, and his well-fit uniform-

He raised the bottle, two drops falling into the glass in a distinct _pip_, _pip _noise, and retracted his arm.

Hermione couldn't breathe.

Because she realized, suddenly, that this wasn't _anyone_ pouring her wine- no- No. This was _Riddle_ pouring her wine, a sadistic, _evil_ human being with _malevolent _intentions and _immoral_ beliefs- and he was surrounded by his lackies, his _cronies_, his Knights, and-

And.

And she was sitting amongst them.

She couldn't breathe, and a strange, strangled noise came out of her- and she suddenly felt like she wasn't here, no, this wasn't her body, she was _detached_ from her physical being- but it was all still happening, and Riddle looked up at her, questioning, and Dolohov whispered to her- _what's wrong, doll? _- and she almost screamed, _screamed_ because she needed to get the fuck out of here, because this was _so_ wrong and she was _so_ scared and her heart suddenly stopped-

She pushed at Dolohov, who was at first confused, but then stood up and stepped away so quickly when he saw her eyes were moist- and she heard the sound of something breaking- it was her wine glass, the one Riddle had poured, and it had broken and spilt all over the table- she saw a white napkin staining with the deep burgundy colour, and it seeped upwards and _upwards_ like a disease taking over its host-

She tripped, and Dolohov held her arm, but she _tore_ it from his grip and ran- she bloody ran away because she was wrong and she _felt_ wrong and she wasn't supposed to be here- she was supposed to be at the Burrow, celebrating the end of the war but mourning all the same-

She hit something.

She hit some_one_. Falling on her back, Hermione couldn't bring herself to _care_, to be _embarrassed_, because she needed to get out of here now _now NOW_-

"Oh- Oh my god, Miss Grimshaw? Are you alright?"

A hand came into view, and when she didn't respond, she was helped up by a pair of strong arms, and standing up on her wobbly legs, Hermione's eyes came into contact with a pair of powder-blue irises, and her heart stopped then started again a dozen times faster- because were those Ron's eyes? Had- had they come back to get her? How did they find her? But she didn't really care _how_, because she needed an out, she was _done_-

But when the voice sounded again, asking her _what's wrong, Grimshaw? Are you alright?_- she realized that no, that wasn't Ron's voice, because Ron's was much louder and sloppier and endearing but this-

This was different. She wiped her tear-sodden eyes and looked up at Quentin Fawley.

"…Grimshaw? What the bloody hell happened? Do you need a doctor?"

She choked. "No. No. No, I don't-"

"What's wrong? What happened? Did you get fired or something?"

She placed her hands on his shoulders because her legs weren't _working_ and she flinched when his muscles tensed and then relaxed. She met his eyes, forcing a smile.

"N-nothing's wrong, I just- it's just that I'm a bit… tired, maybe-"

"Miss Grimshaw, are you alright? I'm terribly sorry if Dolohov did anything, I'll make sure to talk to him and see to it-"

Fawley's muscles tensed again. But it wasn't a surprised tense- but a _tensed _tense, a warning, predatory tense- and she realized that she'd buggered up.

Because Tom Riddle stood behind her, and Quentin Fawley stood in front of her, and she was in the middle.

"Did- Grimshaw, did Riddle do anything to you?" He spat the name _Riddle_ like a poison in his mouth.

Riddle did not reply.

"I-"

"I _assure_ you, Fawley, that I have done nothing of an impolite nature. I was simply checking on our guest."

"Your guest? You- she's _not_ your _guest_! She's just-"

"_She's_ _just_ been introduced to us by Madam Rae, who was only looking out for her best interest, no doubt-"

"_Fuck_ you, Riddle!"

Riddle looked down his nose. "There is no need for profanities, Mister Fawley. Do note that I _am_ Head Boy and I am _very _able to give you detention for your crude manner," he said, his voice lowering gradually and almost turning into a hiss, "and I am able in many other-" he waved his hand, as if thoughtfully- "areas, as well."

Fawley seethed, and Hermione almost cried, because Riddle was _horrifying_ and Fawley's stubborn, hard-headed demeanour meant that _no_, he was _not_ going to back out of this challenge, and that he _wasn't_ going to help her get out of here and he was her only chance-

"Grimshaw, look, just sit down, I'll take care of this for you, okay? Just sit down, and I'll make sure it's fine-"

"My goodness, Fawley, you're practically harassing the woman."

"Just- I'll be right back, Hermione-"

She tore herself away, because Riddle was approaching, and nothing about this felt right, because fuck- _fuck_, she'd gotten in the middle of some _rivalry_ and she wasn't the same as before. She wasn't strong enough to deal with this.

Grunting, Hermione pushed her way past Fawley, struggling to run upstairs- Shei was talking and didn't see her, but Madam Rae did, and before she could hear what the concerned woman was going to say she ran harder, taking two steps at a time-

She crashed inside her room, falling on the small expanse of floor, and gasped for air.

Then she could breathe again- and she took in deep inhales of the stale air of the room, calming her nerves, which were crackling like a whip and burning like an incessant sting in her spine.

Her heartbeat slowed, then slowly faded away from her hearing. And the quiet of the room was deafening.

She scrambled to her feet and almost ran the short distance to her bedside table- she snatched the third drawer open and pulled out the napkins so hard the crashed her elbow into the wood- but even when her elbow _screamed_ and tingled in pain she didn't fucking give a damn because she _needed_ that time turner, and she didn't give a damn where it'll take her as long as it was not _here_.

Without looking, without _really_ paying attention- she unwrapped the napkin and held it in her hands- then there was a _shake_, as if an earthquake was happening, and her head hurt, and she thought she could _just_ feel a pull from behind her chest- and her vision started to form small, white dots- and she was _so_ relieved, because finally, maybe this time, maybe this time she can just go home-

Nothing happened.

She shook her hand, and almost pounded the pendant on the floor, but thinking better of it, she stopped and held it upwards. The time turner was-

_Well_, the time turner looked like shite.

When she'd first seen it, when she'd first picked it up, it was a bright gold, with an almost ethereal sheen, but now- it was dull, and it almost looked like _coal_. She scrambled, and tried to hold it next to the window in the street light, but it didn't change colour. It had a barely discernable shine, uneven and weak.

The ground shook again, just as it had when she held the time turner, and Hermione realized that it _wasn't_ in her head, but no- this was an _actual_ quake. Then, there was a shout- not a frightened one- but an excited one, followed by a crash and what felt like hundreds of feet pounding and running, as if grappling to see something.

Her lungs hurt, but she felt like she was _missing _something- like this was important, and by gods did she hate that feeling- because whenever she had that feeling she was right- it was always right.

So she exited the room, not calmly, but quietly, hesitantly, and she didn't realize that she was holding the time turner until she tried to close the door behind her- but she didn't want to go back, so she hastily shoved it in her pocket. As the walked down the steps, her footsteps gradually quickened: Madam Rae was not behind the counter, and a good majority of the tables were empty, so she turned to where she'd been sitting earlier, almost running, her heart pounding against her sternum and the time turner banging on her thigh, and she caught sight of a crowd standing near what she assumed was the back door.

Suddenly, there was a collective gasp, and then the crowd parted in a fluid motion, and a bright orange curse came shooting at Hermione- she identified it as a very preliminary defensive curse- and Hermione threw herself to the side. The curse flew by and dissolved in the opposite wall, with a sizzling, scorching noise.

Quiet.

"You have abysmal aim, Fawley. What did you score on our last Defence test?"

_His_ voice was quiet, and again, restrained- a mocking laughter sounded around him. Hermione pushed through the crowd at the door, disregarding the complaints, and stepped outside.

It was the same place where she'd landed when she first arrived- with patchy grass and rusty fences- but this time, it was illuminated by a few faint _Lumos _spells from the surrounding mass. Riddle and Fawley slowly circled each other- Fawley's back was straightened, and he took dignified, careful steps- but his demeanour was dwarfed by Riddle's confident posture and measured movements, so graceful that it seemed to _natural_- as if Riddle was _made_ for confrontations.

Her knees shook.

She caught sight of Madam Rae, standing to the side, her wand lit- and wondered, _why isn't she stopping this?_ When a waitress nearby handed off a few drinks and walked towards the door, Hermione tapped her shoulder.

"Pardon me- but why isn't Madam Rae stopping this?"

The girl looked at her, roughly chewing gum with her pronounced jaw. "Yer' the new girl, aye?" She said it in a way that sounded more like _yerrrr theeh NEEEUUUW gerl, AYE?_ She grinned. "She ain't stoppin' 'em for a while, see, it makes for good business. E'ryone likes a dinner and a show."

Hermione's jaw dropped. _What?_

"W-How?! These are people's lives we're talking about here, you can't just-"

She cackled. "People's lives? Goodness, woman, they're a bunch a' students 'avin a scuffle. Ge' real."

The girl said something else, but in that moment, Fawley fired another spell- it was a perfectly executed Leg-Lock jinx- Riddle cast a _Protego_ and the purple jinx pounded into his shield, instantly fizzing out.

"Better, Fawley, _better_, you've improved since last week- have you been practicing on your mirror? I know it can say _awful_ things, sometimes, not in my experience, though- but I've heard."

Fawley reared, and Hermione finally saw his face- he was _livid._

He was _livid_, and he obviously did not know what he'd gotten himself into.

But Hermione couldn't get caught in the crossfire- because she was _poor_ and _wandless_ and all she had to her name was a broken time turner and a job in a shitty excuse for an apothecary- and her magic was _stuck_, and she knew she wouldn't be able to cast a shield in time.

Or, well, cast one _at all_.

So she stood to the side, away from the crowd, but well hidden in the faint shadows- she noticed Shei stood next to Madam Rae, looking alert and _ready_- and it occurred to her- Shei could look formidable if she so wished.

Abruptly, she heard a sound, and snapped her head to see Riddle raise his arm and twist his hand in a complex polygonal shape- he was _fast_, and Fawley was _not_, and the shape suddenly glowed and twisted and started to spin faster than her eye could see- Riddle rotated, slashing his arm _firmly_ and powerfully- the spell raced and hit Fawley's side, who _roared_ in pain. Hermione's eyes narrowed as she tried to identify the spell-

And she did.

It was a Celtic Runic spell, something she'd read about in her fifth year but could only begin to comprehend a few months earlier- it was _difficult_ and it was taxing, and it literally _sucked_ out of your energy-

And if Riddle had used it this early, then it meant that he suspected Fawley was not going to stand for long.

Fawley grit his teeth and sliced at the air- a red spell shot at Riddle- Riddle blocked it, sending a distinct three spell combo at Fawley- the first one missed, the second hit his conjured shield and the third broke it- Fawley cast a _Stupefy_, and it was powerful, and it missed Riddle by the smallest of measurements- Riddle flicked his wrist in a small movement that juxtaposed with the intensity of the round, bright purple spell that flew towards Fawley's head- Fawley shouted and cast a double-layered shield, barely saving himself-

Fawley kept the shield up, and Riddle's stance eased.

"Getting tired, Riddle?" panted Fawley, observing Riddle's slackened posture- Riddle smirked.

"Not at all." His breathing was controlled and his complexion the same colour, unlike Fawley's reddened face.

Hermione choked. _Oh, god._

Because- because Riddle was _enjoying_ this- he was enjoying demeaning Fawley, making him look weak and incompetent- and he was succeeding. He was enjoying this… this _emotional_ and physical _torture_- Fawley looked like he was about to collapse, the Runic spell had taken a toll on him, accompanied by all the other hits. But Riddle?

Riddle was… _enjoying_ himself.

He hadn't been hit by a single spell.

One layer of Fawley's shield failed, then the second flickered and died. He was panting, and his face had started to pale-

Riddle started walking. He took slow, but wide steps in Fawley's direction- each step torturously slow and dreadful and _fucking horrifying_- because Hermione was scared, and she felt like with every inch closer to Fawley, his doom was approaching faster and _faster_ and her legs wanted to take her there and fucking _help_ but she couldn't- because her instincts told her one thing and her brain told her another and she was positively torn.

So she watched as Fawley suddenly got up, she watched as Riddle stopped a few meters away, she watched as Fawley seemed to gather the remains- the fucking _left overs_ of his energy, moving his arm over his head as if _charging_- Riddle's eyebrows furrowed in something that seemed like interest- and Fawley snapped his arm forwards, slurring a phrase under his breath, aiming at Riddle's heart.

It was quiet for a few seconds, and Hermione had thought that the spell, whatever it was, had failed because Fawley was too weak- but then- but _then_, a white light erupted from the tip of his wand, so _loud _and bright that it seemed to rip through the air itself- Riddle abruptly stepped back, and Hermione thought he might have been surprised- Madam Rae gasped, shocked, and stepped as if to interfere, while Shei shouted something unidentifiable, holding Madam Rae back, looking just as shocked herself. Hermione gulped- Riddle started to extend his arm backwards, but his moves were _too_ efficient, _too _calculated-

And Hermione realized that he wasn't surprised.

Not the kind of surprised where one is shocked and did not see something coming, but the kind of mild, uninterested surprise, like when you find out something new and essentially useless and irrelevant but, you know, _it's good to know_-

The white spell shot towards Riddle, and it was faster than anything she'd seen before- but Riddle was prepared, and he slowly faced his body to the side, making himself a smaller target, as his wand arm rotated then pointed at the spell-

Hermione almost screamed, because it was a short distance and it was _fast_ and it looked _wrong- _because no spell should shine so brightly and so dauntingly but _this one did._ And just as the spell was about to hit Riddle-

It disappeared.

It fucking _popped_ and disappeared.

And then Riddle twisted his wrist, like he was forcing something open, and the _very same spell_ formed and it was faster and brighter and within a blink of an eye-

Within a blink of an eye, it had struck Fawley's shoulder, who fell to the floor, silent, eyes wide.

Then he screamed.

It was short, but loud, and Fawley collapsed on the floor, and there was a cheer from a crowd near Riddle. Madam Rae looked stunned, as if she couldn't comprehend what happened, and Shei looked oddly impressed. Riddle finally took the last steps towards Fawley, who was trying to sit up, and leaned to him, his mouth by his ear, and whispered something. Fawley scowled and pushed away, enraged.

The crowd slowly cleared, with Madam Rae running towards Riddle, her face twisted; and Riddle's small gang whispering amongst themselves, idly following their leader.

Hermione didn't move.

Or, rather, _couldn't_ move- because as everyone slowly dispersed, Fawley was still on the ground, clutching his shoulder and wincing, snapping angrily at anyone who came to aid him. When the yard was completely empty, Hermione stepped up to Fawley. She did not offer to help him up.

"You're a rather impressive duellist, you know," she said, moving to sit by him. He flinched away, surprised, before registering who she was. "But you're also an idiot."

His eyebrows snapped upwards. "Why?"

Hermione leaned back, her head vaguely facing Fawley's direction. "Because you knew I didn't need anything but you needed an excuse to fight- and you'd _obviously_ fought before and I can tell that it didn't end in your favour, either."

Fawley scoffed, then fell silent. "It's not my fault he's a complete bloody twat," he mumbled, grimacing.

Hermione gasped, looked at him, then looked again, and suddenly laughed. Fawley flushed. "Sorry, I shouldn't have said that…"

"It's alright, really. I just… didn't see it coming."

He grinned dumbly at her, and the smile almost fell from Hermione's face. In that moment, he painfully reminded her of Harry and Ron. And in the next moment, the smile completely disappeared; because Fawley's eyes had rolled to the back of his head in a display of an unearthly white and his body had collapsed on the grass.

"Faw-Fawley? Fawley! Merlin, wake _up_, Fawley!"

She considered shaking his shoulders, but she didn't know what was wrong with him, and couldn't risk moving him at all. She stood up, her hands feeling _empty_ and her heart heavy, and ran towards the back door: Madam Rae had angrily sent out all the students, and no customers were in the way between her and the staircase.

She clenched her fists and shut her eyes- what she was doing was probably extremely wrong but she _really_ couldn't just leave him there. So she planted her arms underneath his shoulders and tried to heave him up; but she spluttered and nearly slipped. He was _heavy_.

She succeeded the second time, but it seemed to take her hours of dragging him towards the door, her side already developing a stitch and her hands hurting from her strong grip. She silently kicked the rest of the door open with her leg, the image of the book clerk in Flourish and Blotts briefly crossing through her thoughts, and dragged Fawley inside. The floor had more friction, but while her footsteps were more stable and less likely to slide, Fawley's weight seemed to double.

She reached the staircase, and took a break to catch her breath, propping Fawley's unconscious body against the wall. When she reached for him again, her arms once more under his shoulders, Hermione accidentally caught a customer's eye: a hunchbacked, bearded man, who watched her with apprehensive eyes; and she realized how positively suspicious she looked, dragging the unconscious body of a student upstairs, of all places- so she avoided the man's eyes, her face reddening, before quickening her step and ignoring how Fawley's back made a loud _thump_ noise every time he was hauled up every single stair.

Finally reaching her room, Hermione felt like the already small room really couldn't handle any more people, so she threw Fawley on the bed- or, rather, threw half of him, and had to push the rest of him to fit on the tiny bed.

She stole a glance at the bathroom; a small, decade old muggle clock told her that it was still early, and that Fawley wouldn't be expected in Hogwarts for another hour or so.

Quickly making sure Fawley was still alive and breathing, Hermione ran outside- she reached the cupboard labelled _Employees Only_ and tore the door open. She didn't _really_ know what she was dealing with, and thus did not know what to get, so Hermione grabbed a couple of towels from the side, then moved among the crammed, diagonal cupboards. She found a very old, very used bundle of cloth bandages that would _probably_ work- so she snatched it and ran outside, slamming the door behind her. She ran to the joint bathroom, and upon finding a small box on the wall labelled _first aid_, opened it, and grabbed what she judged to be a four-month-old container of Pepper-Up potion. She stashed a bruising salve in her pocket for good measure.

When she entered her room again, with Fawley groaning and a cold sweat forming on his brow, Hermione clenched her eyes shut again. Then she set everything on the bedside table and started thinking.

The spell had hit his shoulder, which meant that, _well_, she'd probably have to push away his robes, which was entirely _too_ over the line. She was spared from the thought when Fawley groaned again, opening his eyes.

"_Fuck_…" He tried to get up but failed. He noticed her looking. "Shit, Grimshaw- I swear I don't usually swear this often…"

"It's alright, Fawley," she muttered, inspecting him. "How do you feel?"

"Other than my broken pride, my shoulder's making me feel pretty bad."

"Oh." She looked away. "I don't really know what that spell was, so I don't _really_ know what to do…"

Something momentarily glowed in Fawley's eyes, as if he'd come across a chance to share something he knew, but he restrained himself. "I'm- my shoulder's probably just bruised, and I'm _quite_ exhausted…"

She flushed. "I-I got some bruising salve, didn't know if it was necessary- here, you can have it."

She awkwardly put it on his chest. A fleeting smile appeared on his face.

"Alright. I'll put it myself. Just look away."

Hermione instantly turned around, hearing the rustle of fabric.

"Crud- Grimshaw, do you mind helping?"

She stood, still facing away, for a few more moments before she comprehended. "Oh. Sure."

Fawley was facing away from her, his back in her direction. He'd taken off his outermost robes, his school vest, and his white shirt. He was wearing a sleeveless white undershirt, and Hermione was acutely aware of his strong arms.

She reached out for the bruise salve- forcing her mind-set to change, because this was _not_ some cheesy, cliché rendition of some scene in a romantic novel.

Not that she'd read any.

The bruise was black and dreadful-looking, and it spread over his shoulder with abnormal, spidery branches. She applied the salve, careful not to press too hard, and the silence in the air was dull and overbearing. When she deemed that she'd done enough, Hermione closed the salve and made a move to hand it to Fawley.

"It's yours, I don't want to take your stuff-"

"You need it more than I do."

He paused. "Grimshaw… have you seen my wand? I think I dropped it somewhere."

"I'll look for it."

She followed her footsteps out of the room, down the stairs, and looked around and under the tables, in case it fell and rolled away. She walked outside and into the backyard, using her feet to look for the wand in the grass.

She stepped on something hard. When she investigated, she found it was a pebble. Before she made to throw it away, her eye caught something, and she realized it was the wand.

She reached out for it- and then, holding the wand in her hand, Hermione suddenly felt apprehensive- because she hadn't held a want in a week and she hadn't used her magic in a _week_ and she couldn't fucking _live without her magic_- she could just take this wand, since Fawley was barely conscious, and could probably afford another- she could run away and never look back, never look back at this _madness_-

There was a sound behind her, followed by a shuffle.

But then- she couldn't. She couldn't take this wand because _it was not hers_, and she was weak and poor and her magic didn't work either way.

"That's not Fawley's wand, is it?"

Hermione nearly shrieked. She did not turn around.

"It is. I think so."

"You're helping him, aren't you? That's so very kind of you."

Then, she turned, her jaw clenched. "Why would you care? You're the one that struck him."

Riddle looked at her, passive. "I did not cast that spell. I merely reflected it."

She did not reply.

"I did not cast any spells stronger than an average fourth year spell- but, since you're not familiar with out schooling system, fourth year spells are not very powerful."

She raised her eyebrows. "You're the Head boy. Are you allowed to duel with your colleagues with little to no consequence?"

He seemed unmoved. "No. I am, however, allowed to defend myself in situations such as these, if they come to occur often."

"I take it that they do- with Fawley."

"Yes."

She shuffled her feet. "You cast a runic spell."

His eyebrows raised, surprised. "I- yes I did."

"That was surely stronger than an _average fourth year spell_," she said, avoiding his eye. Her breath came out foggy. She was cold.

"Nothing too harmful."

She avoided raising the question about Fawley's final spell.

"Miss Grimshaw. I'm aware of what Fawley may say of me-" she nearly scoffed then, because the only thing Fawley had said of him to her was that he was a _bloody twat_, "-but I truly hope that you do not take only his word for it. Fawley is a troublesome young man, and I only did what I was supposed to do."

Hermione didn't reply, because something about Riddle's voice seemed to _weaken_ her resolve- and even though she _knew_ she was right in her suspicions _because she had confirmed them herself_, she could not bring herself to object.

Riddle then bowed. "We truly did enjoy your company today, Miss Grimshaw. If you'll excuse me, I shall bid you good night."

She nodded.

"Please make sure Fawley returns to school in an hour," he said, as an afterthought. "Despite our circumstance, I would hate to give him detention."

He left, his pitch black robes blending seamlessly in the dark, and Hermione toyed with Fawley's wand.

This was bad.

This was _bad_- because Riddle was, apparently, nothing but a charming young man who had an exceptional way with words, and the usual, predictable, _stereotypical_ ambition of a Slytherin.

She climbed the stairs two at a time.

When she walked into her room, Fawley was asleep, fitfully murmuring in his slumber. She found her jumper folded on her bathroom counter, and not bothering how it had gotten there, put it on over the sweater she was wearing.

She sat on the floor, next to the bed, her back against the bedside table and her head leaning hesitantly on the mattress. She had placed Fawley's wand next to the pepper-up potion on the table, hoping he would get the message.

She thought she would be able to stay up and wake Fawley when she felt that he'd had enough sleep; but her head was heavy and her eyes weighed a tonne, and she was lulled into a restless sleep by the sound of Fawley's heavy breathing.

The last thing she could remember was holding Fawley's wand.

As she held it in her hands, the slightly flexible, dark brown wand, slightly shorter than her forearm-

Hermione felt nothing.

No magic flowed between them.

Her magic was- undeniably, and until the foreseeable future- obsolete.

* * *

**A/N**: Aw.

Read and review, please! Tell me what you think. And what you feel. Express your feels thoroughly.


End file.
